Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “This is my first,” admitted Kard, his face cracking and his eyes lighting up. He chuckled.

  “Then you have done a phenomenal job so far,” said The Unknown. “We've spent a good part of our ten years fighting within or without castle walls.”

  “In that case, I am glad of your advice,” said Kard.

  “It will help us all to live longer,” said Hirad.

  “There's one more thing.” Kard drained his coffee. “Senedai, the Wesmen Lord, has Julatsan prisoners, probably thousands of them. He promised to kill them should we double-cross him, which is exactly what we are planning to do.”

  “You don't think he'll be too busy with the trouble you cause to worry about them?” asked Hirad.

  “That's what I told the Council but frankly I doubt it,” replied Kard. “He's got at least fifteen thousand warriors out there. I feel sure he can spare some to slaughter a potential problem.”

  “Any mages among the prisoners?” The Unknown was frowning.

  “I'm sure there are but they'll be keeping very quiet,” said Kard. “Senedai would have killed them otherwise. He's ruthless as he's proved by all the sacrifices in the Shroud.”

  “Is any Communion directed at them? Where will they be being held?” The Unknown asked, seeing Hirad framing the same questions and coming to the same conclusion.

  “In the south of the city, probably at the grain store. It's the only building big enough for the number of people I think Senedai's probably captured; and it's a secure structure, for obvious reasons. As for Communion, we can't risk it. Not just because we don't know if any mages are alive there but because we don't want the prisoners or the Wesmen getting a sniff of our plans before we attack.”

  The Unknown exchanged a brief glance with Hirad, who raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “We'll free them,” said the big man. “But it'll require a slight change to your plans.”

  “How?” asked Kard.

  “Just leave it to The Raven,” said Hirad. “We know what we're doing.”

  Kard nodded. “It's your party if you want it.”

  The Communion had proved promising. Pheone, the mage already contacted by The Raven, was with a group of two hundred Julatsans including eleven other mages. They were picking their way toward where they suspected the Dordovans were camped and could strike at the Wesmen encircling the city in a day.

  The Dordovans too had been found. Two and a half thousand foot, five hundred cavalry and fifty mages, who had been on the point of returning to Dordover because of the strength of the Wesmen massing at Understone, had been given the order to march instead to Julatsa.

  Three other disparate groups of soldiers, city folk and a handful of mages, perhaps one hundred and fifty in all, had been found and advised of the siege plans. Whether they joined the effort or not depended largely on their intercepting the Dordovan force.

  That left the Julatsans plus The Raven with at least one day to hold off the might of the Wesmen, who outnumbered them so comprehensively. Kard believed they could do it. It was down to troop morale, effective use of mages and, critically for the survival of the spirit within the College, The Raven liberating the prisoners assumed to be in the grain store.

  The College had enjoyed its first run of good fortune since the fall of Julatsa. The news of the mysterious but very welcome arrival of The Raven had spread like bushfire through the College, bringing smiles to faces and the quoting of good omens. The Raven were also credited with the blindness that appeared to have afflicted the Wesmen in the watchtower who, an hour after the Shroud's dispersal, had still not realised the vulnerability of those they watched. For them, it would soon be too late.

  A group of six mages walked from the base of the Tower. Dawn was coming though it was still full dark. The courtyard was quiet but for the cloth-muffled sounds of pans clashing in the kitchens, of cook fires being gently stoked, and of the muted protestations of the freshly greased well-chain as water was hauled from the underground course. In so many ways it was, as Kard demanded, an entirely ordinary yet artificially governed preamble to dawn.

  But from behind every door, a Captain or Lieutenant watched, their men primed and ready to race for their designated gate. The spotter mages prepared ShadowWings and The Raven, already hidden in shadow by the South Gate, waited. Hirad and The Unknown Warrior hefted weapons, Ilkar and Erienne prepared HardShield and HotRain respectively and Denser, ShadowWings of his own. He would navigate. It was the best way to avoid unwanted confrontation.

  The six mages walked casually across the courtyard, their bodies relaxed but their minds taut with spell preparation. For all the steel cladding on the lower levels of the Wesmen's tower, the watchplatform was still open, though netted against arrows. There was no warning. One moment they were walking, the next they stopped and a dozen FlameOrbs were flashing across the sky, the extra preparation time adding speed and accuracy to the casting.

  The sudden light flared harshly across the courtyard as it moved swiftly toward the helpless Wesmen guards. Shadow followed orange light in hypnotic sequence and the briefest of hushes fell on the College before the Orbs struck home.

  The Julatsan night lit up as orange fire deluged the platform, igniting wood and flesh and consuming both with equal voracity. Flames leapt upward, boiling off the roof of the tower, while on the platform itself the burning Wesmen shrieked and thrashed in their agony, one plunging through the torn netting to fall, trailing smoke and flame as he went. And as the single desperate toll of an alarm bell rang mournfully out into the night, joined by the screams of the dying, the College courtyard sprang to life.

  Kard and his Captains yelled orders, soldiers and men raced to the gates which were hauled open and, first into the streets of Julatsa, The Raven, with Denser, eyes magically augmented, flying above and ahead of the runners. Behind them came a force of six hundred soldiers and city men at arms plus thirty defensive mages. North would go around four hundred swordsmen plus twenty mages, leaving the College temporarily undefended by steel but not by magic.

  During the days of the DemonShroud, Senedai had stood down the force that had originally completely encircled the College walls, presumably dispersing them through the far more luxurious surroundings of his captured buildings. However, a circle of guardpoints still closed all routes from the cobbled ring that ran around the outside of the College walls where they intersected the first city buildings and it was here that the first strike would be made.

  Hirad led The Raven across the cobbled ring, toward the main street that led to the industrial quarter. Wesmen guards in front of them yelled warnings and drew weapons, cries were taken up in a dozen places but the tide of Julatsans was about to sweep away the first flimsy line of defence.

  “Raven!” roared Hirad. “Raven with me!” He sprinted forward, The Unknown just to his left, Ilkar immediately behind them.

  “Shield up,” said the elf. “Hold your casting, Erienne.”

  “Holding.”

  Four Wesmen stood in their way, their expressions ranging from uncertainty to incomprehension at the force coming at them. Hirad ran in, sweeping his sword through, chest high. His target leapt backward, hanging out his axe in a feeble attempt at a block that The Raven man knocked aside, butting the man in the face and smashing his nose. The Unknown went one better, his sword breaking the weapon of his victim on its way to lodge deep in the Wesman's shoulder. Hirad could hear the bones splintering.

  With one man clutching at his face, Hirad sliced his sword up and right, taking the next man across the stomach as he raised his axe to strike, and finishing him with a stab to the heart. He reversed his blade and chopped it across the neck of the man he'd head-butted while The Unknown lashed a haymaking punch into the midriff of the fourth before stabbing him in the throat.

  Denser landed behind them. “Your first left is an alleyway. Take it and then the first right. It's quiet there for now but the Wesmen are waking. We need to hurry. Erienne are you all right?” She nodded an
d pointed to her head where she held the mana shape for HotRain. Denser took off again and The Raven ran on, leaving the Julatsans to clear their path back.

  Hirad grabbed a branch from a fire and took off down the narrow alleyway, the flickering cast by the makeshift torch just enough to ward off the worst of the shadows. Behind them he could hear the shouts of waking Wesmen, the sounding of alarms and the clashing of steel as Julatsan warriors joined battle with those who had taken their city. Detonations sounded, muffled by the blank walls of the alleyway that led them away from the main street, the light of FlameOrbs and the muted glitter of HotRain casting brief luminescence in the sky.

  Turning down the next alley, a slightly wider paved street, Hirad could see Denser flitting ahead. He banked sharply right and dived low, storming back toward the rest of The Raven, landing in front of Hirad, who pulled up sharply.

  “This is easier than I thought. The grain store is just to the end of this alley and across a wide square. It's guarded and there's light in every window of every building now the alarm has spread but any Wesman running is running for the College. If we're quick, we can—”

  Above the ascending din of battle and the crump of spells hitting buildings and men, a howl pierced the night. It was long and full of anger and sorrow, tailing off into a keening wail and a bark that echoed out. For a split second, Julatsa was silent then battle was joined again.

  “Shield down,” said Ilkar. “What in all the hells was that?”

  “Dear Gods,” said Erienne who had clearly lost her mana shape. “It was Thraun.”

  “Will,” said The Unknown. “Poor Will.”

  Another howl split the air.

  “What will he do? Thraun, I mean?” asked Ilkar.

  “I don't know,” said Erienne. “But I think we'd better get back as quickly as we can. If he'll listen to anyone, he'll listen to us.”

  “But we have to get these prisoners out first. Right,” said Hirad, looking to where Denser stood, his wings proud at his back. “Erienne, go with Denser if he'll hold you. Your spells are probably best directed from above us. Ilkar, FlameOrb then sword please; we can't waste another shield. We'll deal with Thraun and see to Will's Vigil later.” His mind, clouded briefly by the loss of another Raven warrior, cleared to deal with their immediate situation. “Raven with me.”

  A third howl echoed from the walls of the alleyway. Closer this time. The wolf was loose in the streets of Julatsa.

  Dystran cursed and threw the book down at his feet. He leant on the balustrade of the Tower balcony he had assumed from Styliann and prayed hell would visit swift retribution on the former Lord of the Mount.

  Knowing Styliann was probably still alive following his usurpation of power in the College, Dystran and his cohorts had known only too well the importance of the Protectors in maintaining that power. And yet, immediately below him, the entire Protector army stood silent, awesome and terrifying, on the carefully tended lawn. Waiting.

  At first, Dystran hadn't believed Styliann and had fallen back into an uneasy sleep. But a frantic knocking at his bedchamber door soon afterward had led to him scurrying to the study and out on to the balcony where he saw the Protectors issuing from their barracks into the cool breezy night. With unhurried purpose, they had marched into the torchlit night, flickering orange glinting off their masks, their polished leather and the buckles of their boots and clothing.

  They had assembled over the course of an hour but Dystran hadn't watched. Tearing back into the study, he had grabbed the Articles of Stewardship from its place on the shelves by the desk and flicked feverishly through its pages. The Act of Giving was there, plain for him to read. But in his pride and overwhelming sense of achievement and importance at attaining his new position, he just hadn't bothered to look.

  The Lore script concerning the Act was the most modern in the College, written by Styliann and designed to make renunciation a long and complex process. By the time he had studied the text in enough detail, had gathered the Circle Seven and fulfilled the meditation process, eight days would have passed. And so the Articles lay at his feet, an open page fluttering in the gentle night air.

  “We've got to stop them,” he muttered.

  “What do you intend doing?” asked his senior confidante, an ageing, grey-haired mage named Ranyl.

  “We can WardLock the gates for a start.” Dystran waved a hand in their direction.

  “And they will merely batter the timbers to splinters,” said Ranyl. “No holding spell is strong enough to keep them all quiet and they will respond to aggression by attacking the source of the order to strike or cast. And that's you.” The old mage's voice was quiet but sure. “There are four hundred and seventeen Protectors down there, all with innate magical shielding. I know who I'd back in the fight.”

  “So what can we do?” Dystran's voice held a note of desperation.

  “Let them go and rescind the Act of Giving. Or send an assassin to kill Styliann. Those are the only two ways to bring the Protectors into your control.”

  Dystran snorted. “An assassin? Styliann's soon going to have five hundred-odd Protectors around him. The whole Wesmen nation would have trouble getting to him.”

  Ranyl stooped and picked up the Articles of Stewardship and slapped them into Dystran's chest.

  “In that case, my Lord, might I humbly suggest that you get reading?”

  Below them, the Protector army moved on an unspoken command, coming to readiness absolutely as one. Dystran started, his heart thudding in his chest. Exuding power with every stride and swing of the arm, they trotted to the south gate, now under the gaze of the rudely awakened College. Dystran shook his head, his face taut with anxiety, seeing more than one questioning face turned up toward him and Ranyl.

  At the gate, the lead Protector pushed the gateman firmly aside, wound the bar away and pulled open the heavy iron-clad wooden gates with assistance from three others. Without further pause, the Protectors trotted away into the dark streets of Xetesk, and Dystran could very easily imagine Styliann's laughter.

  Lord Tessaya watched tight-lipped as Styliann and the dread force ran to the north while his warriors struggled to form under the harsh shouts of his Captains. He summoned his highest ranking General, a man named Adesellere.

  “I want four thousand men after them before dawn cracks the sky. Do not let them escape. I want word sent through to Riasu for five thousand of the reserve to be here in one day. He should also be advised to attend me immediately. Lastly, I want you to personally organise forward defence of Understone, the pass and the surrounds. Be mindful of the south.

  “I will be pushing on to Korina in two days’ time. See every commander has carrier birds. Do you understand all that?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” said Adesellere, an old and trusted aide, battle-scarred, bald and fierce. “Do you want me to remain with the defence?”

  Tessaya nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. “You are one of the very few I can trust. Send Bedelao after the mage. I will get word to my scouts north and south. I get the uneasy feeling we'll have to revise our plans. Not all of my brother Lords have acquitted themselves as they might.”

  “I won't fail you, Tessaya.”

  “You never have before.” Tessaya dismissed Adesellere. He looked out over the muster area into which the General now ran, barking out orders to his Lieutenants who drove the warriors into some semblance of order. This was not as he had planned and he cursed under his breath, bringing to his mind where it had begun to go wrong.

  With the destruction of the Wytch Lords certainly but there was more. The attack on Julatsa had not been swift enough and to the south, disaster had apparently overtaken Taomi. The Eastern Balaians should have had no hope but the fact was that the Wesmen had failed to capture or kill a single targeted figure.

  Unless his reading of the situation was completely cock-eyed, General Darrick, Baron Blackthorne and The Raven were all still alive and fighting. And now, unless they could catch him, Styliann woul
d return to Xetesk as a standard for the mages. Tessaya's hand was being forced and he didn't like it.

  What he needed was for Senedai to occupy the College Cities, for Adesellere to halt any advance from the south and for his march to Korina at the head of ten thousand Wesmen to be swift and without error. He could still take Korina. The bloated capital city wallowed in its sense of achievement and wealth and had little time for organised defence. Yes, there would be resistance but, with the Colleges and southern armies busy, he was certain he could prevail.

  But it wouldn't be the glorious march he had anticipated and dreamed, with the smoking ruins of the bastard Colleges behind him. And for that, he wanted someone to pay, and pay heavily.

  Darrick's flotilla of small and medium-sized craft had crossed over three quarters of the Bay of Gyernath when a shouted alarm reached him from the southern edge of the squadron. He quickly scanned the beach they were approaching but it was deserted, yet consternation fed through the boats to his right and he could see men, or more probably elves, pointing southward.

  He looked and could see nothing initially but then, as a nearby twin-masted craft cleared his line of sight, he saw them. Sails. Cruising around the Gyernath headland. First two, then four. All noise in his boat ceased as more and more eyes turned to stare at the fleet moving up the Bay toward them. As Darrick watched, he saw more sails rounding the headland, appearing like ghosts on the breeze. Silent predators, swift and deadly.

  “Gods under water,” he muttered. He turned to his second-in-command. “I need the elves and mages to tell me who they are and I need to know fast. Go to it.” The man strode away, shouting a name Darrick couldn't catch. The General summoned his signalmen.

  “Flags for course change. North-northeast immediate. If those are Wesmen, we'll need all the distance we can get.”

  Messages were relayed as the flotilla changed course, heading for a more difficult shore. Almost immediately, the larger fleet of predominantly three-masted vessels altered its direction in response. They were gaining and fast. Pennants flew from the tops of masts and from each stern. He could see tiny figures in the rigging and, he thought, faces lining the decks. Thousands of faces.