Noonshade

by James Barclay

  “What now?” asked Denser, his gaze turned to Erienne as she tended to Thraun.

  “We keep vigilant,” said Hirad. “Above and around. We need Ilkar to maintain the shield for now. Erienne might have scared them off but they might come back. Meanwhile, we have to think how to find the others.”

  “Assuming they're there to be found,” said Erienne. She had placed a pad of cloth around Thraun's wound. The shapechanger had grasped the shaft with his right hand and at her nod, tugged it once, hard. It came free. Thraun grunted his pain and blood spread over the cloth, running over Erienne's hands. She quickly stemmed the flow, muttered a few words and pressed a little harder. “Keep pushing,” she told Thraun, placing his hand on the pressure point. “I've knitted the wound inside but it's still weak. Try not to use that arm for the rest of the day, all right?”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  She caressed his cheek with her bloodied hand. “Dear Thraun,” she said, and her troubled face said everything her words did not.

  The Raven had stopped just below the lip of the cleft. There were enemies in the grass and enemies in the sky above and they had no idea where they were.

  “Options?” asked Hirad.

  “We need to push away from here,” said The Unknown. “We know we have to head to the mountains. We can still do that.”

  “I'll go up,” said Denser. “Take a quick look around, try and spot the others and our erstwhile attackers. What do you think?”

  “Risky,” said Ilkar, his voice faint with concentration on the HardShield.

  “No riskier than staying here blind,” reasoned Denser. “And we need Styliann. He has the writings.”

  “Do it,” said Hirad.

  “Be careful,” said Erienne.

  Denser nodded. “I won't be long.”

  With ShadowWings trimmed for speed, Denser shot into the air, aware immediately of how vulnerable he felt in a medium so totally dominated by dragons. Though they were far away, battling over the rip, with their cries, their flame and their power an incredibly alien backdrop to his flight, Denser felt all their eyes upon him. He shuddered and looked at the scene below him.

  The area around The Raven's position was clear, their attackers still moving off to the east, their progress marked by the erratic waving of the grass. He couldn't tell how many there were but they represented no significant danger. The biggest risk he could see was from the fire which raged in three places, sending billows of smoke into the sky as it ravaged the plain unchecked. The blaze nearest to them had taken much of the cleft in which they had hidden and moved steadily in all directions, the breeze slowing but not stopping its progress toward them.

  Two larger areas of fire burned fiercely away to his right and Denser could see so easily how the dragons had ruined their land. Nothing but torrential rain could stop this blaze completely engulfing the entire plain which had to cover hundreds of square miles and, looking about him, he saw nothing but blue sky and light cloud. No respite would come today.

  He flew on beyond the flames, in the direction of the mountains, reasoning that any survivors would try to move onward. He was quickly rewarded by the sight of grass swaying and flattening in a careless swathe ahead.

  “Styliann,” he breathed. He swept down over the grass, calling for them to stop. Close to, he could see three Protectors in a wide arc and, though they appeared to be shadowing no one, the movement of the stems ahead told him that Styliann was there but under a CloakedWalk. Not a bad idea when you didn't care for the safety of your companions.

  “Styliann, stop. We need to regroup.” He overflew and wheeled in the air.

  “No,” came the disembodied voice, breathless with effort. “We need to get away. I've lost Jatha and three of my Protectors have been killed.”

  “Calm down, the dragon has gone.”

  “Don't you believe it.” And as if to give credence to his words, a roar from his right told Denser all was not good. Bursting through the smoke, the dragon pounced to the ground and grabbed one of Jatha's men, or possibly Jatha himself, soaring back into the air and tearing the man in two with his front claws, feeding each piece into his mouth, blood spraying and scattering.

  Denser's heart hammered in his chest and he twitched reflexively away, fighting to hold on to his concentration, his breath ragged, his mouth dry. A shudder coursed through his body and his hand was shaking as he moved it to wipe his sweating forehead.

  “Get out of the sky, Denser; you're a sitting target. And get Hirad to call his bloody dragon friends in or we're all dead. Understand? Now stop giving away my position.” Styliann and his Protectors changed direction and Denser soared away, very aware of his total exposure. Hugging the top of the grass, he flew hard to The Raven's position, surprised at how far he had come, and trimming his wings for more speed.

  With a note of surprise in its tone, he heard the dragon bark. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw it bank and wheel, all the while its eye fixed on one thing.

  “Oh dear God,” muttered Denser. He was closing on The Raven and he and they only had one chance. He could hear the dragon's wing beats as it raced toward him, he dived deeper still, his body skimming the tall fronds of grass. He flew into the smoke of the fire ravaging the cleft, holding his breath and turning a sharp left, flying along the line of the fire. Arrowing back into fresh air, he saw that the dragon had carried straight on, missing The Raven in its search for him.

  Seizing the only time he had left, Denser flew hard back to them, pulling up to land just as the dragon realised it had been fooled and turned again in the air. It wouldn't be long in reaching them.

  “Quick,” he said, talking as his feet hit the ground and he dismissed the wings. “Back down the slope. The dragon's coming back. Erienne, we need anything that may keep off fire. More HardShield. I'll try an IceWind defence. You never know.” They cast as they scrambled down, keeping themselves in close formation, with Hirad cajoling them all the way.

  As they descended, they knew it was hopeless. They were running back into the flames, the dragon's shadow passed over them once more, the force of its wings loud and terrifying and, this time, they could all see it bank and turn to fly down the length of the gully, opening its mouth to breathe.

  It never reached them. At the top of the gully a huge set of jaws clamped around its neck and drove it into the ground which shuddered violently underfoot. Flame lit up the sky, a dual roar split the air, one was abruptly silenced. There was the sound of wings in the air and the shadow of Sha-Kaan hung over them, huge and comforting. His mouth dripped blood and he heaved great lungfuls of air as he hovered. The Raven's relief was palpable.

  “I heard your call but I was far from you. Get away from the fire and head toward the mountains, I will bring Jatha and your people to you. You must be ready to close the gateway when our orb reaches its height thrice from now.” And with that, he was gone.

  Denser collapsed on to the ground. “Give me a moment,” he said.

  “Move when you get too warm, eh?” said Hirad, indicating the flames and smoke scant yards away. “Good move into that smoke, by the way, but a pity he saw you landing. Work on that for next time.”

  Denser looked up, anger in his eyes, but it evaporated when he saw the smile on Hirad's face. “Funny, Coldheart. Very funny.”

  Hirad reached down his hand. “Come on, Denser, we've still got a long way to walk.”

  Lord Senedai awoke to the smells of campfires, cooking meat and damp, and the sounds of Shamen leading their warriors in songs and chants calling for the alignment of spirits and the ancient lords of war to be with them this day.

  He rolled over on his low pallet, eyes to the slightly billowing roof of his tent. He listened to his men, he caught the whisper of the wind through the camp and he sighed, a deep slow exhalation, before sitting upright and rubbing a hand across his face and through his knotted hair.

  “Attendant!” he shouted, and his tent door was pulled back immediately to admit a tall y
oung warrior, barely more than a youth. His tanned frame was hard-muscled beneath a tight-tied sleeveless grey shirt and his hair was cropped to his scalp as his rank dictated.

  “My Lord.”

  “Battle furs and breakfast,” ordered Senedai.

  “My Lord.” A half bow and he left.

  Senedai dragged himself reluctantly from his bed, walked a little stiffly to the door flap and pulled it open a crack. Outside, the predawn gloom was deepened by a misty rain that fell from a heavy sky, punctuated only by the cook fires dotted around the camp. He set his jaw and moved back into the relative warmth of his tent.

  “So much for the songs of fortune,” he muttered. A damp battlefield was all he needed. Yes, blood would slick the ground underfoot but rainfall on grass would make the ground slippery from the very start and he had a feeling they would need every bit of help they could get despite their overwhelming numerical superiority.

  During his sleepless night he had gone over every option, wishing fervently his catapults weren't still in Julatsa, awaiting the move to Dordover. He could attempt to simply overrun the enemy, sheer weight and press of numbers driving their bodies into the mud, but that was a charge he would have to lead himself and he found no desire to die this day.

  He ate and dressed quickly and walked outside into the slowly lightening sky, to be accosted by a tribesman who thrust a message into his hands. It was unopened.

  “Who brought this message?”

  “A fast rider from Understone, my Lord. He arrived just before you awoke.”

  Tessaya had sent word. Excellent. Senedai turned away and unsealed the message on his way to the nearest cook fire with enough light to see by. He made his way through a mass of warriors sharpening weapons, hefting furs, practising strikes or just talking among themselves, and everywhere the sounds of a camp coming to life filled his ears. Dogs snarled and barked, orders were shouted, fires crackled and popped, tent sides thumped, loose guys snapped and song filtered from all sides. It was hard not to feel confident. The enemy had nowhere to run and it was obvious to even the untrained eye that they were too few.

  Yet Senedai felt doubt deep in the pit of his being. And reading the message from Tessaya multiplied his fears. He had hoped to see his Lord marching over the fields to make victory certain that very morning. But there had been a change of plan. Tessaya had had word from the remnants of Taomi's army that a large force was marching from the south. Senedai was to complete his task with no further help, the message said. Tessaya would join Taomi's forces and crush the southern enemy. They would then muster on the road to Korina while reinforcements shored up the defences of Julatsa.

  Victory was assured, the message ended. The Spirits smiled on them and the enemy gods would look away. Tessaya had made certain of that.

  But Tessaya wasn't facing what Senedai faced. And as the sun lightened the sky to reveal the masked force standing stock still on the ground in front of the ruins just as they had as night fell, the Wesman Lord quailed inside and prayed for an answer to present itself that could save him from humiliation.

  Behind him a dog barked and a harsh voice silenced it. At least there was part of the answer. He dropped the message in the fire and summoned his Captains to issue battle orders.

  In the light of late afternoon, General Darrick sat around a hastily erected map table with Blackthorne, Gresse and a tired Communion mage. The Wesmen had stopped and dug themselves in, scouts reporting that Tessaya and the southern force remnants had managed to connect.

  “What is all this about?” asked Gresse. He'd just heard the Communion report and both he and Blackthorne faced Darrick blankly.

  “Look, there's things been going on you know nothing about. I'm sorry not to have told you but there didn't seem any point and we all had axes to grind against the Wesmen anyway.”

  “What exactly?” asked Gresse carefully.

  “This is going to sound preposterous but it's all true, I swear it,” said the General. He looked round to make sure they weren't overheard. “There's a…a hole in the sky over Parve. It's growing and when its shadow covers the city at noon, dragons will invade. Don't ask me how or why, but they will. The Raven and Styliann have ridden to find a way to close the hole. He went back to Xetesk, and they went to Julatsa. I was left praying they would make it and now it seems obvious they have.

  “But now the Wesmen are threatening even themselves, ridiculous though that sounds, and we clearly have to stop them.”

  “But why have the Wesmen chased them? I mean we're talking about ten plus thousand running after what they think is six people.”

  “Yes, but they think that The Raven are going to bring back dragons. I mean, they've got it hopelessly wrong but that's what they think. And it makes them very difficult to deal with.

  “More than that,” continued Darrick. “It explains why Tessaya went on the move. Look.” He indicated the map. “Tessaya's plan was to march on Korina when his southern army sacked Gyernath and his northern took Julatsa, thereby removing supply all the way, north to south, from the strongest Colleges, Xetesk and Dordover. Lystern he can leave until later. He has thousands of men in reserve to defend both cities and the pass so he is relaxed. He also knows, or thinks he knows, that coordinated defence of the East is nonexistent so even though Dawnthief has removed the Wytch Lords and his own magic, he still believes he can take Balaia. So he wants Korina next to cut off principal west—east supply and break Balaian morale.

  “But not everything went right. For a start, Gyernath survived its onslaught and still stands. To add insult to injury, you two and your motley band of farmers’ boys—” he imbued the term with complete reverence and respect “—have taken the rest of the southern force apart, something he has only become aware of very recently. Next, The Raven reappeared in the East as did Styliann and I, and they desert a siege situation and presumably through torture in Julatsa he has answers to why, but the wrong ones.

  “He knows he has to move fast so he begins to destroy as he moves, knowing we still can't take the pass and having to hamper our resupply at every stage he can, hence Understone. He is on his way directly to Korina but he doesn't want to lead us straight past Septern Manse and leave any chance that we can stop his other army—also on its way to Korina, by the way—from catching and killing The Raven. I'd do the same if I held the superstitions they do. On their own, The Raven have already destroyed apparently indestructible forces and he'll be sure they can do it again. Best not to take chances. Best to see them dead.”

  “So he'll fight us just to stop us reaching Senedai?” Gresse's expression was sceptical.

  “For one, but also because it's better to fight us there than outside Korina where he thinks, again mistakenly, that we would get significant help. Possibly even enough to defeat him.” Darrick's heart was racing and he could see the pieces slot themselves into place in the minds of the Barons.

  “But all that is immaterial if Senedai kills The Raven,” said Blackthorne. “Because, if you're right about these dragons…”

  “…the only chance any of us, Wesmen or Balaians, have is if Senedai is stopped,” finished Darrick.

  “And Tessaya won't believe us,” said Gresse. “Gods falling, I'm not even sure I believe us.”

  “Just say all this is right, how long can the Protectors hold out? Long enough to see The Raven complete their task? Long enough for us to skirt Tessaya and hit Senedai ourselves?” asked Blackthorne.

  Darrick shook his head. “As to The Raven, I don't know. All I do know is that we won't get around Tessaya, not an army this big. He already has us scouted.”

  “So we're going to fight him?” Gresse looked less than upset at the idea.

  “If we fight and win, it'll take two days minimum. No.” He smiled at what he was about to say. “We've only got the one choice and, farfetched as it is, we have to have his help.”

  “So?” asked Blackthorne, though Darrick could see he knew the answer and was already fighting with thoughts
of placing his need for vengeance to one side, much as Darrick himself was doing.

  “So, we're going to march right up to him, as quickly as we can, look as powerful as possible and then we're going to persuade him to send a message to Senedai.”

  Hirad had known it would be beautiful, the feelings in his mind when Sha-Kaan had spoken of it told him that, but he hadn't imagined the half of it. They had climbed several hundred feet up a steep-sided rocky slope with the deep orange sun beating down from the same blue sky that had lain above them ever since their arrival in the dragons’ dimension.

  The remainder of their journey had been a nervy rush across the fire-ravaged plain. The surviving travellers had reformed an hour from where the Veret dragon's attack had taken place and while The Raven were unhurt, barring a few scratches, only Cil and two Protector brothers remained of the six that had come through the rip, and Jatha had lost seven of his people.

  Styliann had remained quiet about what he had seen as his Protectors died but the flinch he had given when a Kaan dragon overflew them on the way back to its homelands was all the information Hirad had really needed. The Xetesk Master had been pale and clearly shaken and, for the first time, Hirad had actually felt a little sympathy for him.

  The battle in the sky had been won, just, though Hirad had felt Sha-Kaan's sorrow as he had spoken of singling out one Brood, the Veret, for attack until the Kaan had driven them off, breaking their spirits and a fledgling alliance between enemy Broods. But, in a notable change to his attitude, he had detailed a quartet of Kaan to shadow their journey despite the extra attention the action would inevitably bring.

  And so they had travelled, humbled by their experience and all too aware of the awesome destructive power of even a single dragon. No more was that evidenced than by the plain they left after a further day's travel to move into the rocky foothills of the mountains they had seen from the dead forest. Looking back, they saw the scars and open wounds that would probably live on forever.