Noonshade

by James Barclay

  They had discussed a variety of options to liberate a boat but the simplest, to send in the mages under a CloakedWalk to steal a boat and bring it upstream was dismissed for the simplest of reasons; neither knew one end of a boat from the other. Further, it was the cause of passing mirth when Ilkar admitted that not only had he never learned to swim but that he was actively scared of water. Besides, The Raven wanted to cause some damage.

  Ultimately, Denser had reluctantly agreed to Ilkar's original plan but Hirad harboured worries. Denser was not thinking straight and that could mean great danger for Ilkar as the two mages scaled the watchtower.

  Any sabotage would follow the commandeering of a suitable boat. The fireworks Ilkar had in mind would blow their cover and require a quick getaway but the vote had carried. All were aware of the urgency of their mission but Ilkar in particular was keen to disrupt supply to the attack on the Colleges.

  From the top of the gully's northern end, the way down was rocky but firm and led toward the edge of the sheer cliff, at the base of which tumbles of stone jutted from the water. They kept to the base of the cliff, hugging its shadow as it curved toward the camp until Thraun called a halt beyond the periphery of likely Wesmen vision. The night was dark this low on the ground and it was little more than a hundred yards to the first tent of the encampment. For now, they were out of sight of the tower and secure. A few yards further on, the ground fell away and would leave them exposed.

  “We will follow on in three hundred counts unless we hear sounds of trouble,” said Thraun. “You know the meeting point. Are you ready?” Ilkar nodded. Denser shrugged.

  “Let's get it over with,” he said. Hirad stared at him bleakly.

  “Concentrate on your position, Denser,” he said. “Any lapse could kill you both and that would be unforgivable.”

  “I haven't lost my eyesight or sense,” said Denser.

  “Just your sense of purpose,” said Ilkar.

  “Nor my respect for my friends,” continued Denser, staring hard at Ilkar.

  “I'm glad to hear it. Right. Let's get going.”

  Ilkar and Denser intoned quietly, moving their hands up and down their bodies. With a curt nod, Denser walked forward a pace and disappeared. Ilkar followed him and Hirad could hear them talking low as they moved off.

  “Gods, he'd better not let me down,” said Hirad.

  “He won't,” said Erienne. “If nothing else he isn't stupid.”

  “Just stubborn, difficult and bloody miserable,” said Hirad.

  “Nobody's perfect.” Erienne smiled but it was forced and unhappy.

  “No.” Hirad looked toward the Wesmen encampment.

  As agreed, Ilkar took the lead with Denser right behind him, one finger hooked in his belt. The CloakedWalks wreathed their bodies in invisibility but did not muffle their sound and Ilkar kept to bare earth, being careful to skirt the waist-high plains grass that edged the cliffs and grew in patches across the ground and away up the slope where they had first taken in the camp.

  “Don't stop when we hit the ladder,” said Denser.

  “I won't,” said Ilkar a little sharply. “I am aware of the limitations of the spell. And keep your voice down.”

  “My pleasure,” hissed Denser.

  “What the hell has happened to you, Denser?” whispered Ilkar, all his ire gone.

  “You wouldn't understand,” replied the Dark Mage, his voice quiet and vulnerable.

  “Try me.”

  “Later. Are you going left or right in the tower?”

  “Left, as agreed.”

  “Just checking,” said Denser.

  The camp was quiet as they approached, passing the peripheral tents pitched around their standards. The two mages slowed. From the nearest tent, the sounds of snoring filtered through the canvas. Across the camp, a horse whinnied and the unmistakable odour of pig filth drifted on the wind which gusted and swirled through the camp, rattling tentage, tightening rope on peg and blowing the odd snatch of conversation from tower or central fire.

  Ilkar appraised their task. From the safety of the gully it had seemed simple enough but, closer to, the watchtower seemed tall and crowded with powerful Wesmen. Ilkar looked the tower up and down as they neared it, silent now but for their footfalls.

  The tower stood about twenty feet high and was constructed from four stout central trunks sunk into the ground and packed at their base with rock for extra stability. A lattice of strengthening timbers crisscrossed their way to the roofed platform on which stood the pair of Wesmen guards. In the left-hand corner of the platform, a bell was fixed to one of the roof supports, its clapper tied off against wind and careless elbow.

  “Remember, the throat or through the eye to the brain. We can't afford for them to cry out,” whispered Denser.

  “I know,” said Ilkar, but inside the knot of nerves tightened. This was not the sort of action he was used to. He'd killed a number of times before but with the sword or with an offensive spell. This, he wasn't used to at all. “I'm going straight up.”

  The ladder ran up between the two poles facing into the camp and finished at a gap in the waist-high balustrade that ran around the platform. The two bored guards were leaning on its outward edge, sometimes exchanging low words but mostly quiet.

  Ilkar grasped the sides of the ladder, being careful not to lose momentum. The wood creaked alarmingly, his heart missed a beat and his eyes scanned the platform for signs of agitation but the Wesmen seemed not to have heard. For now, at least, the wind was in their favour.

  Ilkar's nerves became a fear which gripped him for a moment. This was a job for a warrior but none of them could hold the spell in place. Even The Unknown, who had operated ShadowWings shortly after his release from the thrall of the Protector calling, could not hope to maintain a CloakedWalk. There was a subtlety to the spell that had to be learned and enjoyed. The ability to hold the mana shape when stationary and visible, and to perform simple tasks while on the move without losing spell concentration, were nuances not quickly mastered. Simple tasks like murder, thought Ilkar grimly.

  Five rungs from the top, everything started to go astray. With each step, the new wood protested, not yet bedded to its fastening. Ilkar slowed but there was an inevitability about the head of a curious guard that appeared at the top of the ladder, frowning down into the gloom beneath him, seeing nothing.

  Ilkar felt Denser's hand on the rung his trailing foot was just vacating. They weren't supposed to get that close—Denser hadn't slowed, and couldn't have seen the danger.

  “Move back,” Ilkar urged the guard under his breath as he climbed inexorably upward, slowing still further. To slow any more would be to become visible and to become visible would be to die. “Move back.” He made another step, keeping his feet to the ends of the rungs, but another creak cracked the night, deafening to Ilkar's ears. The Wesman leaned further out, peering down with intense concentration, knowing what he was hearing but confused by what he wasn't seeing.

  Ilkar thought briefly about heading down but the change in direction would give him away, not to mention catching Denser completely unawares. The stupidity of the situation fell about his head.

  The guard straightened but did not move from the edge of the platform. Keeping his gaze firmly set on the ladder below him, Ilkar placed his hand on the rung directly beneath the Wesman's feet and drew his dagger with the other. He really had no other choice.

  “Oh Gods,” he muttered, and surged upward, blade before him, taking the guard in the crotch, where it lodged. The man grunted in shock and pain, staggered back a pace and fell to the ground, dragging the dagger from Ilkar's grasp, clutching between his legs as blood blossomed to stain his leggings.

  Ilkar kept moving left, knowing Denser would take the right. As the guard hit the platform with a dull thud, his companion turned, his mouth dropping open at the sight that greeted him. He started to speak but Denser's thrown dagger caught him clear in the throat, his shout turning to gargles as the blood pou
red from the wound.

  Ilkar looked down at his victim who opened his mouth, a low agonised keening escaping his lips. He crouched, snatched his second dagger and jammed it through the man's open eye into his brain. He died instantly. The surviving Wesman clutched at the dagger in his throat as he staggered backward, his jaws moving soundlessly, his eyes wide as Ilkar switched into view.

  Too late, the elf saw the danger and even as Denser grabbed at the man, the Wesman's furs dragging outward in the Dark Mage's invisible grip, he tumbled off balance, his arm swinging back where it caught the bell full on, knocking it from its mounting. The guard fell dead, Denser on top of him, but the bell, sounding dully, teetered and plunged over the side of the tower.

  “If we're lucky…” said Ilkar.

  “No chance,” returned Denser. The bell struck the rocks at the base of the tower with a loud clang, the clapper breaking free to swipe at its dented surface on its single bounce. The strangled ring sounded right across the camp.

  “At least the others know we made it,” said Denser.

  “We're in trouble,” said Ilkar. “Know any Wes?” Denser shook his head. “Big trouble.”

  Harsh voices came from the next tower and the beginnings of spreading alarm below them were plain to the ear.

  “Stay down,” said Denser.

  “Thanks for the tip,” snapped Ilkar. “Any bright ideas?”

  “Yeah, let's steal a boat, learn to sail and leave the towers alone.” Denser crawled toward the gap in the balustrade. The shouts from the tower were louder, more urgent. There was a moment's silence before the bell sounded, calling the camp to wakefulness.

  “Gods falling, what a cock-up,” said Ilkar, raising his head to look out at the camp. Denser dragged him back down, the light of energy suddenly bright in his eyes.

  “You want sabotage?” he said. “I'll give you sabotage.” He closed his eyes and prepared to cast. Ilkar's face cracked into a smile.

  Thraun had unshouldered his pack and was stripping off his leather before the sound of the fallen bell registered as trouble in Hirad's mind.

  “You don't have to do this, Thraun,” said Will, his stance edgy, worry lining his face.

  “We must have a diversion or Ilkar and Denser will be killed.”

  “I doubt that,” said Hirad.

  “There are seven of us against three hundred. We have to give ourselves a fighting chance,” Thraun said.

  “But that's not the real reason, is it?” Will was staring up into Thraun's yellow-tinged eyes. Anger flickered across them before he shook his head sharply.

  “There's no time to talk about this now.” He turned to face Hirad. “Don't wait for me at the shore. I can swim. I'll find you.” The shapechanger, naked now, lay down. The Unknown hefted Will's stove and Thraun's sword on his back. Will bagged the clothes and armour and slung them over his. “Best you get on,” said Thraun. “I'll catch you up.”

  The night was filling with the sounds of anger and confusion. Hirad led The Raven quietly along the edges of the cliff. Soon, the watchtower was in sight and the shore angled sharply away to their left where the camp was built. Nothing moved on the platform.

  “Where are they?” In answer, a figure rose in the tower. Denser. His arms moved outward, then clutched into his chest. Six columns of fire screamed down from the sky, scoring sudden blinding light across the camp. Each one smashed into a store marquee, unleashing frightening devastation.

  HellFire. The columns sought souls. Denser had guessed rightly that men or dogs slept inside the marquees, and each column plunged through canvas to gorge itself. Tearing through timber boxes, stacks of cured meats, vegetables, grains, rope and weapons, detonating flour which flashed fire bright within three of the store tents. Their canvas exploded outward on a wave of air, sending planks, splinters, shards of wood and debris high into the night. Flame burst sideways, sheets of yellow-flecked orange snapping out, catching men and surrounding tents alike. The guards around the campfire wouldn't have stood a chance.

  “Raven, let's go!” called Hirad as the camp dissolved into chaos. From somewhere on the wind he thought he heard laughter. He broke into a run, heading for the base of the tower in which Ilkar and Denser both now stood. FlameOrbs sailed out, diving into the tents at the northern end of the camp and splashing fire across tribal standards, scorching Wesman and canvas alike. New screams joined those already mingling with barked orders, shouts of alarm and the roar of two dozen blazes. Wesmen ran in all directions, carrying buckets, salvaged stores, and burned and dying comrades.

  A handful of Wesmen warriors ran to intercept The Raven and gain the tower.

  “Forget a shield, Erienne,” said Hirad as they took up position, the mage behind the trio of swordsmen. “We need offence. And quickly.”

  “Right.”

  Hirad roared and closed with the first Wesman. The Unknown, three paces right, waited for the flanking attack.

  The barbarian sliced left to right, his enemy blocking and leaping backward. Hirad followed up with a cut to the neck which the Wesman turned away but he was in no shape for the third as Hirad switched grip and opened a huge gash across his chest. Blood welled through his heavy furs and he stumbled. The Raven warrior stepped up and pierced his heart.

  Turning, Hirad saw The Unknown taking on two, sweeping his blade into one's side and kicking out straight into the other's stomach. More Wesmen were gathering and Hirad weighed up their options.

  “Ilkar, we need you two down here,” he called.

  “We've got a better idea,” Ilkar shouted back. “Head for the shore, we'll see you there.”

  Hirad refocused on the battle. Fire raged on in the centre of the camp. Fanned by the wind, more and more tents fell victim and the anguished cries of terrified animals rose above the noise of blaze and clamour of voices. Directly in front of The Raven, twenty Wesmen broke and ran at them. The Unknown tapped his blade on the ground, waiting.

  “I'll take left,” he said, sensing Hirad's eyes on him.

  “Will to my right,” said Hirad. The wiry man trotted into position. The Wesmen ran on, their momentum the greatest immediate threat they posed, their weight of numbers enough to overpower the thin Raven line if they so chose. Hirad tensed for the fight but at twenty yards the charge was shattered.

  Erienne stepped forward between Hirad and The Unknown. She crouched and spread her arms wide.

  “IceWind.” The temperature fell sharply as the cone of dread cold air streamed from Erienne's palms, whistling as it went and taking the centre of the Wesmen advance. Its broad front caught six men full on and they fell, clutching their faces, lips seared together, eyes frozen and cracked, their cries of agony little more than desperate hums inside useless mouths.

  At the periphery of the spell, blood chilled in exposed flesh, blades fell from numb fingers and heads turned away, the whole line stumbling to a stop in the face of the sudden blast of glacial air.

  As quickly as it had come, the IceWind had gone but there was no respite for the stricken Wesmen. Trying to bring some order out of the mayhem caused by the spell, they were taken completely unawares by Thraun. The wolf's approach had been silent but now he howled and crashed neck-high into the enemy, ripping the throat from one, his huge flailing paws knocking another from his feet to lie stunned on the ground.

  Hirad made to wade in but The Unknown's voice stopped him.

  “No, Hirad. Leave him to it. They can't hurt him. Let's get to the shore.” The barbarian nodded.

  “Just as we planned,” he said, and headed north to skirt the first group of burned out tents. A dark shape flew over his head and ducked low toward him. He flinched and brought up his sword. Denser hovered in front of him, ShadowWings deployed, Ilkar in his arms and caught around his neck.

  “We've got more damage to cause. Get the boat and get out in the Inlet. I'll fly in,” said Denser. Ilkar said nothing, his eyes closed as he prepared a spell.

  “You be careful, Denser,” warned Erienne.
>
  “The thought is lodged in my mind.” He shot up and back, heading for the southern end of the camp. Hirad followed the flight; the black shaft of an arrow silhouetted against the light swept past them. Immediately afterward, the gates of the cow and horse pens shattered and the animals stampeded.

  “Let's go, Raven.” Hirad ran for the shore, leaving Thraun to his slaughter and the mages to their destruction.

  Thraun could smell the fires, the fear and the blood mixed with the scent of prey animal and dog. He picked his way quickly through the grass, pale brown body blending with the colours of night, paws silent. He stopped at the perimeter of the human occupation, myriad scents vying for dominance. He ignored them. In front of man-packbrother, enemies gathered. They threatened, their sharp weapons raised. With the sound of the pack echoing in his mind and the smell of the forest forward in his memory, he charged.

  The first enemy hadn't even faced him. He leapt, jaws closing on unprotected throat, left paw connecting with his chest, right beating another to the ground. Blood filled his mouth and coated his nose, his growl of pleasure the last sound his victim heard.

  Panic gripped the enemy. They broke and ran. Thraun turned his head. Man-packbrother and the others were moving swiftly away. Water. His brain fought to remember. He would meet them on the water. He looked down, lashing a paw into the man he'd knocked down. He stopped moving, blood covering the wreckage of his face. Thraun howled again and set off, tracking man-packbrother, fighting the urge to chase down the prey animals that bolted here and there, their terror a tempting taste in his mouth.

  Man-packbrother moved along the edge of the occupation. Thraun was inside the first line of dwellings, most of which burned, their occupants either dead or running blindly. There was no order. From his right, he heard sounds of alarm. Three enemy moved toward man-packbrother. Thraun hit them at a dead run, catching the first on his chest and sending him sprawling into the others. Consumed with the blood, he ripped and tore, his fangs chopping into flesh as he worked his head left and right, his paws beating, claws dragging.