Noonshade

by James Barclay

  What should he do? He walked back up the main street to the gates of the town, climbing up the watchtower that controlled them. The two guards bowed their heads at his appearance.

  “Keep watching,” he said. They turned again to look at the empty black that was the entrance to the pass, illuminated to the right by the fire of the pass watch. “Has there been no sign?”

  “No, my Lord,” replied one, unsure whether to turn or not and ending up awkwardly half faced toward Tessaya. “They have seen nothing down there and the paths to the north and south are both empty.”

  “What in all the hells has happened to them?” demanded Tessaya.

  Still unsure, the guard ventured a reply. “He is a mage, my Lord. Not to be trusted.”

  Tessaya opened his mouth to slap down the guard, whose response was not required, but found himself in total agreement. Instead of barking, he nodded and relaxed just a little.

  “Yes. Why should I be surprised, eh? I'm glad to see you understand who we are expecting.” He turned to go. “Be very vigilant. I cannot have this man loose.”

  And then the entrance to the pass was engulfed in sudden violence.

  Masked warriors surged into the night, scattering the watch fire and slaughtering the guards, who plainly hadn't seen them coming. The shouts of alarm were cut off so quickly. Without a pause, the warriors continued at a dead run and in their midst, a lone man on horseback, riding at a canter. The dread force surrounded him completely, the warriors moving easily at speed. There was no fuss, no struggle and no doubt. Only a frightening efficiency of pace and stride and a total focus. Not one glanced toward Understone as the whole turned north and ran up the trail, the bemused stares of the watchtower guards following them as they ran quickly away.

  Tessaya swore to break the hypnotism of the moment, slamming his fists down so hard on the tower rail that it shuddered beneath him, one timber cracking under the strain.

  “Wake the tribes!” he yelled. “I want every man from his bed. I want this town empty and I want it now. Every warrior. I want those bastards caught and slaughtered. Move!”

  Alarm bells rang out all round Understone. Tessaya stared after Styliann. It had to be him on that horse. Loose in the east with his damned masked warriors and heading straight for Xetesk. And even as he watched, a new chill stole over him. There went Styliann, but where was Darrick? And where were The Raven? He dismissed the new worry from his mind, knowing it would return once his fury had subsided. For now, he had but one target in his sights.

  “By the spirits of the Paleon dead, I will drink your blood, Styliann of Xetesk,” he growled.

  But as the clamour of the waking army engulfed his ears, he thought he heard laughter echoing from the mountains in the still night air.

  And so it was for the next three days. The Council of Julatsa made the awful pilgrimage to the North Gate to see Senedai and the Wesmen murdering innocents. Sacrificing them on the altar of the DemonShroud. On the first day, a further hundred died, fifty at noon, fifty at dusk. On the second, three hundred met their deaths, many with the same proud face as the old mage, but more and more with reluctance, defiance and angry words shouted at the Council who watched them all and, in their eyes, lifted not a finger in their defence.

  On the third day, that unrest had shifted within the walls of the College and with the sacrifice of one hundred and fifty older women at noon, the Council turned from the gate ramparts to find themselves facing an angry mob held at bay by Kard and a line of College Guards. Behind the steel defence, mages stood ready to cast ForceCones to fragment the crowd if necessary.

  At the front of the crowd of perhaps two hundred were their appointed spokesmen and the soldier whom Kard had reprimanded at the first sacrifice. The General had succeeded in quieting them but the silence had a menacing quality, every eye on the Council. Kerela nodded.

  “Well, I suppose we had to expect this.”

  “This is hardly the time to talk to them,” said Seldane.

  “There will be no right time,” said Kerela. “Though I had hoped Kard's talks would have a longer lasting effect.”

  “I suspect those that listened to them are praying rather than demonstrating,” said Barras. “We were never going to convince everyone.”

  “What do they hope to achieve?” asked Endorr. The junior Council member scanned the crowd nervously.

  “Well, let's go and ask them, shall we?” Kerela led the way down the stairs inside the gatehouse. As they emerged into the courtyard, a whisper went around the crowd. Kerela strode across the space and waved Kard and his soldiers aside. She stood, Barras at her left shoulder and the remainder of the Council grouped behind them, and looked solemnly into the faces of the frightened angry city folk whose friends were dying in increasing numbers outside the relative sanctuary of the walls.

  Barras decided to let her have the first words though many naturally looked to the Chief Negotiator for comfort, or a solution, anything.

  “This is the hardest time of our lives,” said Kerela, and the whisper of voices stilled instantly. “Our people…your people are dying in their hundreds, forced into the DemonShroud by a mob of murderers who seek the destruction of this College. But to remove the Shroud now would put the life of every Julatsan at risk.”

  “But if the Shroud goes, the killing will stop,” said a voice from the crowd. Others joined in support.

  “Will it?” asked Kerela. “Why do you think the Wesmen are killing the very young, the very old and women they deem beyond child-bearing age? They are a conquering army. Those of no immediate use are merely extra mouths to feed and extra enemies to watch over. Maybe they could sell the children as slaves across the Southern Oceans but the rest? Just an expense. And right now, they cannot afford any extra expense. I'm looking around you now and one in three of you will die if the Shroud is removed before we are ready to act. Anyone who doesn't believe how selective the killings are, is welcome to view from the North Gate at dusk.”

  “We can't just sit here and watch the bodies pile up,” said the spokesman, a youngish brown-haired man named Lorron. “You understand that.”

  “I do. And I am mystified that you know nothing of our plans in development. Here you stand with a member of the city Guard, to whom General Kard will be giving further instruction later, and yet he has clearly told you very little or nothing.” Kerela stared at the soldier whose defiant expression began to wilt under the pressure of the old elf's gaze. “I do hope you haven't just been stirring up trouble,” she said gently.

  “I'll tell you our problem,” said the soldier. Barras could feel Kard tense and could only imagine the look on his face. “It looks like you'll do anything to keep your College secure. Even if that means every prisoner out there dies.”

  “Yes, but I see you managed to find sanctuary in here. Is our accommodation no longer to your satisfaction?” The tips of Kerela's ears were reddening. Barras knew there was an explosion to come. It was just a matter of when. “Tell me,” said the High Mage, her voice awfully calm. “What would you have us do?”

  “Fight!” said the soldier, and a brief murmur rose around him. “Gods in the ground, what else?”

  Kerela nodded. “I see. And presumably, you think we'll triumph despite the odds stacked against us, do you?”

  “We can try. We have magic,” said Lorron.

  “And it will be used when the time is right!” thundered Kerela, the sudden power and volume of her voice jolting the entire crowd. Barras fought back an unwanted smile. Kerela continued.

  “Do you think I want to stand and watch while innocent Julatsans die? Do you really? But I'm afraid I have to. Because more than half of my mages are unable to cast through injury or mental damage caused ensuring that you stand here alive and well today. And General Kard has drawn up plans for an attack but the beds are still full of wounded men. Would you have me leave them to die? Are they somehow less important than those outside?

  “Dordover has sent soldiers, and probabl
y mages, to our defence. Shall we not bother to wait for them? And shall we rehearse our plans in the courtyard here under the eyes of that damned tower, giving away our intentions as we do so?” She pointed to the Wesmen's tower which, manned day and night, was even now being pushed to a new position, presumably to observe better the current dispute.

  “The slaughter outside the North Gate sickens my very soul but worse is the thought that any of you believe I am complacent in my duties.” Her voice lowered again. “We are few against many and our attack has to be on our terms and its timing exactly right or we will be slaughtered. I understand your impatience but, my way, we will save more lives overall. Should that not be our aim?”

  “And what about the College?” asked the soldier.

  “It is the hand that feeds us and the power that drives us. We will defend its integrity with everything we have. I will not lie to you. Any attack we mount in an attempt to break the siege must not leave the College at the mercy of the Wesmen.” Kerela stopped, awaiting a response. “No Julatsan will die in vain. No life will be wasted while I am High Mage. Does anyone wish to say anything else at this stage?” People in the crowd looked at each other. Heads dropped.

  “Good,” said the High Mage. “Just one more thing before you go. I am High Mage and this College is under my direct control, along with the Council and, because we are in a siege situation, General Kard. Anyone who thinks that this is not an acceptable situation can try walking the Shroud with my blessing. Do I make myself clear?” Some nodded, some didn't. Most found their shoes very suddenly the most interesting part of the College. Kerela nodded, gathered the Council and walked away toward the Tower.

  Behind them, Kard's voice rang clear. “Break it up. Get about your duties. Not you. Come here, soldier. Come here!”

  Thraun stood at the stern of the single-masted sailboat, growling at the Wesmen grouped on the shore. He was in the way of the tiller and Denser, under the watchful eye of The Unknown, had to reach around his rear to control their direction. There was no pursuit. The flames of the devastated camp lit up the sky, casting dancing shadows on the water that played in the ripples caused by the wind. Cloud had rolled up to all but extinguish the moon's watery luminescence.

  Hirad sat back and pulled off his boots, emptying water over the side. He was tired. Six days of hard riding and walking followed by a fight they hadn't planned. He sat the other side of Thraun and looked along the boat. The sail was full but not tight, driving them across the inlet. The Unknown Warrior was sitting opposite the boom wringing out his socks. On the covered prow in front of the mast sat Erienne and Will, out of the way of the tackle, while Ilkar, his hands gripping the gunwale, was right next to Hirad, his gaze fiercely inboard.

  They had escaped but it hadn't been comfortable. Fortunately the backup plan had worked well. Even so, Hirad wasn't satisfied.

  “What happened, Ilkar?”

  “Clumsy Wesman,” said Ilkar, raising a smile. “I think he was trying to wrestle Denser's dagger from his throat but he knocked their alarm bell off instead.”

  “We had to attack before we reached the platform,” said Denser, supplying the answer Hirad wanted. “Ilkar couldn't come back because he'd have lost his Cloak for a beat and stepped on me, so, with the guard blocking the entrance, we had no other choice.”

  “But the kills weren't clean,” said Hirad.

  “We're mages, not knifemen,” said Ilkar a little sharply. “I have never done anything like that before and I doubt you have.”

  “I guess not,” said Hirad. “But I still need to show you the best killing thrusts. It would have helped.”

  “When we're on dry land, I'll be glad to undergo training,” said Ilkar. “But right now, I'm trying not to be violently sick.”

  Hirad laughed. The boat was barely pitching, its passage very smooth, yet there was an uncharacteristic paleness about the elf's face.

  “You'll be all right,” said the barbarian.

  “Look at the horizon,” said The Unknown. “It moves less than the inside of the boat. It'll give you some sense of stability.” Ilkar nodded and dragged his gaze out over the water toward the eastern shoreline where the sea met the sky.

  Apparently satisfied with what he saw on land, Thraun turned, knocking the tiller briefly from Denser's hand. He ambled up the boat, pausing to stare at each member of The Raven as he passed. Hirad met his gaze, seeing the yellow flecks in Thraun's eyes but none of the repressed humanity that Will assured him was there. Yet there was an intelligence in that stare that had nothing to do with anything animal and, curiously, Hirad felt no threat despite being one lunge from death.

  He watched as the wolf leaped lightly on to the decking of the prow, moving in between Erienne and Will. Will's hand reached out and stroked the length of his back. Thraun's head turned and his tongue licked out, plastering the little man's face.

  “Affectionate, isn't he?” said Hirad.

  “I wonder if he'll be embarrassed to hear about that when he changes back,” mused Denser, his mood at odds with his behaviour of the last few days.

  “How long will we be sailing?” asked Ilkar.

  “Half the night, maybe a little more,” replied The Unknown.

  “Oh, Gods,” muttered Ilkar, tightening his grip still further. Hirad put a hand on his shoulder, patting him gently.

  In the prow, Will wiped his face, anxious to keep the wolf saliva from his lips. He didn't quite succeed. He scowled and grabbed Thraun's muzzle with a hand, giving it a shake.

  “Do you have to?” The wolf licked his lips and gazed mournfully back, eyes sad and far away. Will's scowl turned to a frown. “What is it, Thraun? What's wrong?” Thraun dropped his eyes to the decking. “You could change here. You don't have to wait until we land. Remember.” It was the word that triggered the human deep within the body of the wolf. Or should have. But Thraun merely hunkered down, resting his head on his forelegs, head pointing out to the Inlet.

  Will glanced across at Erienne. Worry lined her face as it lined his.

  “It'll be all right,” she said unconvincingly. “He'll change when we land.”

  “You saw him the last time,” said Will. “He changed the moment we were clear of Dordover. Couldn't wait. The longer he goes, the harder it gets to remember he can.” He stroked Thraun again, pushing his hand in hard against his spine. Thraun's tail flipped languidly, for all the world like a dog relaxing by his master's feet.

  Will shook his head. Thraun always changed back so quickly. He hated the form of the animal, he was frightened by it. Or so he said. But this time…Maybe the motion of the boat unsettled him. Maybe. But he looked comfortable. Comfortable. That was a state he had never seen in the wolf and he'd witnessed Thraun change at least a dozen times over the years he'd known him.

  “Thraun, come on, look at me.” The wolf obliged, blinking. That was something at least. “Remember. Please.” Thraun raised his head slightly, sniffing the air. He growled deep in his throat and returned to his scan of the water in front of him. Will turned to The Raven; all eyes were on him.

  “Can't this boat go any faster? I think we've got a problem.”

  It had been a sunny enough morning. The light cloud that had covered the sky at dawn had been blown away by a fresh breeze from the northwest, leaving clear blue skies, a gently warming sun and the ever-roiling and growing shadow.

  The fifteen soldiers and three mages of the monitoring party in Parve had chosen for themselves one of the grand houses that lay just off the central square. It was a large, two-storey building with rooms enough for each to be shared by just two men. A well-stocked pantry and cellars, partly harvested from other nearby dwellings, made living comfortable. But not too comfortable.

  Each of the men who had volunteered for the duty was aware that they were unlikely to see the Colleges again. Between them and home lay the entire Wesmen invading armies and the Blackthorne Mountains. Above them, the rip to the dragon Dimension posed unguessable threat, and in the dead ci
ty they knew that not everyone was dead.

  Outside of the billet, the platoon officer, Jayash, forbade them to walk in groups of less than three. Mages had to have two guards each. Patrols leaving the relative sanctuary of the square were always six strong with a mage in support. The streets weren't safe.

  Not that they had actually seen anyone. But the sounds were there. The echo of a footstep, the slap of a door on a windless day, the hurried scrabbling of hand in dirt, the ghost of a voice carried on the breeze. Some, probably acolytes, had escaped Darrick's net. Parve was an eerie place.

  It was approaching noon on the eleventh day of measurement. Having long since calculated the rate of increase of the noon shade and the dimensions of Parve, it was now a question of monitoring, of completing the chart each day, of checking for errors and watching the sky.

  No one had actually said it but they were the early warning system of another dragon attack. An attack they would not be expected to survive.

  Jayash and three soldiers watched while the duty mages prepared the ground for the day's measurement. Inside an area covering almost a thousand paces on its long side, and seven hundred on its shorter, the paving of the central square had eight lines of metal spikes driven in to its surface. Each line represented a compass point and the distance between each spike and their progression toward the edges of the square marked the expansion of the shadow.

  Jayash strolled around the perimeter of the marked area as the shadow moved across the ground, a monstrous blot on the earth that sent shivers through his body and cooled the fledgling warmth of the day.

  Turning in the area, he walked along one line and back down another, noting the distance between each peg. It was not an exact science, of course. If the cloud was heavy, the shadow's edge was more indistinct and inevitably there was error.