Noonshade

by James Barclay

  No longer did the plain shimmer in its pale blue and red frond-topped light as far as the eye could see. Now, beneath a huge shifting pall of smoke and ash, a yellow and orange glow told of the fire still burning, consuming the stunning vegetation, voracious and insatiable in its appetite. Where it had burned itself out, the land was blackened and smouldering, laid waste to its roots and beyond in the heat of the consumption. The vegetation was resilient and would sprout again but that thought made the sight no less terrible.

  “Just one dragon,” The Unknown had said as they watched with hypnotic stillness the countless miles of smoke and flame. “Just one.” His words had speeded their ascent.

  Now here they stood, The Raven, apart from the rest as befitted the Dragonene of the Great Kaan and those pledged to help him, and looked down for the first time on the Kaan homeland. The slope they had climbed had flattened into a pitted rock plateau which swept to a point jutting out over the homeland. As they stood at its edge, the rock beneath them formed an overhang, arcing down and out of sight the Gods knew how far below. And all around them was a different world.

  Left and right below them, a carpet of shifting green lay covering a wide valley, the walls of which were just visible through the veil. Massive leaves waved gently, attached to huge boughs that sat darkly beneath the surface and Hirad could only imagine the size of the trunks from which they grew. Across the undulating surface, the sun's orange light shot delightful rays of colour through pale strands of mist, and the stark backdrop of white peaked mountains tumbling down to dark flatlands completed the serene picture.

  But that alone wasn't the beauty Hirad saw. In the sky above the canopy, the Kaan wheeled and dived, lazy beats begetting long, graceful glides as they circled while those entering the trees from above swept their wings back and shot past, golden bodies sparkling in the orange glow as their bodies spun, dragging vortices of mist after them as they disappeared.

  And they called to each other. Sounds of welcome, of farewell, of sadness, of love and of enduring devotion. To the Brood, to each other and to their home. The calls were brackish and guttural, or haunting hollow cries that echoed from the valley walls. They tugged at Hirad's heart and senses, filling him with the warmth of belonging and the emptiness of the war that stole Kaan from the sky each day.

  Hirad felt the strength falter in his legs and he crouched, one leg under him, his right hand on the ground as he rocked forward, watching. He could have stayed there all day, such was the majesty of the Kaan and their homeland. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. It was Ilkar.

  “Can you believe it?” asked Hirad, gesturing at the awesome view all around them, his eyes again on the Kaan and the trees and mist covering their valley, a warm moist breeze blowing in his face.

  “If I live to be five hundred, this will be my abiding memory as I die,” said the elf, the magnitude of it all plain in his voice.

  “Never mind Balaia. They're too busy grasping for themselves, most of them. This is what we're really trying to save. And this is why we can't fail.” Hirad stood up, wiping damp eyes. To his left, Jatha gazed down on the homeland with an almost stupefied expression on his face.

  “Home,” he said.

  “See what it means to them? He must have seen this a hundred times but just look at him.”

  Ilkar nodded. “We all want this to work, Hirad, and your reason is probably more compelling than most but I think you need to be realistic about our chances.”

  “Tell me on the way down. I think Jatha is anxious to get there, as am I.”

  Jatha led them to a stairway carved from the stone of the mountain on which they stood. Steep and moss-covered, it swept under the overhang, twisting and turning through cleft, behind waterfall and around the enormous boles of the trees whose leaves hemmed in more strands of mist, building clouds the further down they went.

  Descending through the dancing, orange-striated cloud, the atmosphere closed in hot and damp, vision was impaired and the stairs became slick and wet, treacherous to the unsure foot. Ahead of The Raven, Jatha and his men scampered down with practised confidence, Jatha's voice at odds with his movement as it periodically echoed “Careful!” up through the mist.

  But for the Balaians the way was far slower. Leaning into the rock wall, which ran with water or was covered with a thin film of slime, they kept away from the far edge which plummeted down through the mist to death on the valley floor.

  Hirad, walking behind Ilkar, had decided not to ask any questions until they breached the mist but when they did, it was a long time before he could find any words. In a few paces, the mist had thinned and cleared beneath the leaf layer, giving them their first view of the Kaan homeland.

  A vast flat space of rock, grass and river stretched under the mist which reflected a gentle, warm light on to the land below, giving the homeland a tranquil aspect, easy on the eye. The river which meandered through the centre of the valley was a sparkling blue and the sounds of water reached them across the still, humid air from falls which fed the river in a dozen places he could see. The grassland was a luxuriant deep green tipped with red and blue just like the plain and, given the connected squares of close-cropped and waist-high stalks, was clearly tended and harvested for some purpose.

  The buildings scattered along the valley sides, some low, flat and half-buried, others dug deep into the rock of the valley itself, seemed purely functional. But one magnificent structure dominated the Broodland. With its polished white stone gleaming in the filtered sunlight, its dome and towers striking toward the sky yet dwarfed by the extraordinary sculpted wings whose tips all but touched the mist above, Wingspread was a simply staggering monument to Sha-Kaan. And his carved face looked out at his domain, eyes forever watching for danger. Nothing like it existed in Balaia and, for all their magic, nothing ever would. This was a construct born of consummate respect and veneration for a leader the Kaan and their Vestare honoured freely and with a fervour lost to the peoples of its kindred dimension.

  All the Balaians had stopped to drink in the view. Glancing across at Denser, Hirad saw the awe on his face while Erienne's held an enraptured smile that had as much to do with the atmosphere of peace and safety as the sights before her. For Hirad, it was like coming home and he closed his eyes and let the feelings of the Kaan wash over him, his limbs tingling, his mind suffused with the thoughts Sha-Kaan let drift through his mind.

  “Tell me we won't let this be destroyed,” he said eventually.

  “We'll save it or die trying,” said Ilkar. Hirad looked at Ilkar, seeing that the determination that had bound him to The Raven for ten years had not dimmed.

  “Well, I have no intention of dying,” said Hirad. “Tell me about our chances.” He motioned that they should follow after Jatha and his men who had continued to the base of the stairway and were wading through a square of grass, their walk becoming a run as they approached the river and a set of crossing stones.

  Calls of welcome from human mouths echoed across the Broodland and from a dozen small stone-and-thatch dwellings set in a hamlet close to the river came more of the Vestare. Children squealed with delight, men and women came together in embraces, splashing through the shallows to welcome home those who had been gone from sanctuary so long.

  Laughter floated across the air but with it the sounds of crying and sorrow as those whose men had not survived learned of their loss. The mood broke quickly and solemnity returned. All faces turned toward The Raven as they, Styliann and the Protectors strode toward the river, crossing the same stones Jatha had danced across so recently.

  “Raven, welcome,” he said. “Hirad, home.”

  “Home,” agreed Hirad. He pointed toward Wingspread. “Sha-Kaan?”

  Jatha shook his head. “Wait,” he said. His face cracked into a smile. “Eat? Drink.” He clapped his hands and some of the Vestare scampered away, disappearing into their houses. He sat on some close-cropped grass and motioned his guests to do the same. Fruit and strips of meat
were brought out on platters by some, while others brought pitchers of water and juice and carved wooden cups out of which to drink. From somewhere nearby, music from a set of pipes drifted across the air.

  The scene and the atmosphere were idyllic but Hirad couldn't forget why they were here. A handful of dragons sat on the ground outside, massive hulking bodies resting part in the river or on the flat rock, heads sweeping lazily to grab Flamegrass or the carcasses their Vestare brought them. They all ignored the arrival of the strangers completely. Most, he presumed, were flying around the rip, injured in melde-corridors or cavorting in the skies overhead. Sha-Kaan, he was sure, was inside Wingspread and he thought it curious the Great Kaan had not come out to greet them. But, as always, he would have his reasons.

  “Hirad,” said Ilkar. “Before you speak to Sha-Kaan—”

  “Yes, our chances,” agreed Hirad.

  “Or lack of them,” said Ilkar. “And don't bridle like that, I'm only being realistic. You need to know exactly how far we've got.”

  Hirad tore at a piece of meat with his teeth, washing the food down with the pale green, sweet fruit juice.

  “You aren't going to tell me anything good, are you?”

  “It's not quite that bad,” said Ilkar. “It's just there are so many unknowables and guesses we're having to make. But let me start at the beginning. Unknown, you ought to listen to this.”

  “I am,” came the reply. “Thraun?” The shapechanger moved closer to Ilkar. He had a cup in his hand but hadn't taken any food.

  “The theory is relatively simple but, without definite parameters, the power of any spell we cast is going to be a guess. Educated, but a guess. What we have to do, and the four of us are strong enough to do it from beneath the rip, is form a mana lattice that binds with the edges of the rip. This is all based on Septern's spells designed to border rips and contain them.”

  “So you're going to effectively border this rip,” said The Unknown.

  “Absolutely,” said Ilkar. “And then we have to draw it closed. Now that would be reasonably easy if we only had one end to contend with but we don't; we have a corridor and another end all of the same massive size. You all right with this so far, Hirad?”

  “Anything I don't get I'll ask The Unknown to explain when you've gone,” he said.

  “Gone where?” asked Ilkar.

  “Gone where you can't hear me complaining how complicated you make things,” said Hirad, smiling as Ilkar's ears pricked.

  “Fine,” said the elf mage. “Now, returning to reality for a moment, we're sure that Septern must have opened and closed dimensional corridors and there is theory that discusses the weave, if you like, that is required to close a hole in interdimensional space. What we believe we have to do is set up what is best described as a mana shuttle which, anchored at this end of the rip by the border we create, flies down the corridor, looping through its sides to come out the other end and effectively pull the sides together, closing the rip and corridor on both sides.”

  “Can that be done?” The Unknown took fruit from a platter offered to him and smiled his thanks at the woman serving. “I have to say, Ilkar, it sounds very far-fetched.”

  Ilkar sighed. “It is. Look, we don't know if we can do it, yet. The lore theory is there in Septern's texts, Styliann and Denser are trying to link it to some Xeteskian dimensional theory and we do have a spell that will close a gateway.”

  “But it's the shuttle bit, isn't it?” said Hirad.

  “Yes,” said Ilkar. “It's certainly an extension of the mana lattice we'll make to contain the rip on this side but at the moment we're guessing and that's very dangerous.”

  “I don't want to worry you but we don't have the time for you to do anything else,” said Hirad. “We have to cast this thing in the next day or so or it'll be too late for the Kaan and you know what that means for Balaia.”

  “I am aware, Hirad, but we did always say it would be difficult.” Ilkar's eyes narrowed a little and his ears reddened. “Developing new spells isn't easy, you know.”

  The Unknown held up his hands for calm. “And bickering isn't going to help. Now, am I missing something or can't you cast the lattice that borders the rip this side, pull it closed, if that isn't too simplistic, and then go back to Balaia and do the same in Parve?”

  Ilkar raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Lovely idea but we had to discount it. Even assuming we'd make it back to Parve from the Manse, it wouldn't work. The power in interdimensional space is too great and you have to remember that the corridor would still be there, just with no second opening. We have to close the corridor too and the lattice is inherently unstable and wouldn't survive to give us the time to reach Parve. That's why we had to come here. We have to close the rip against the flow of the way it was made.”

  “So sum up our chances in a way I can understand,” said Hirad, his plate still full but his appetite fading fast.

  “If Denser and Styliann can't find any help in Xeteskian dimensional theory, we have next to no chance because we'll have no idea of the forces operating beyond the rip. If they do, we're still making a best guess at a mana construct brand new to us all and will have no clear idea if it'll work until it either does or doesn't. It'll require all our combined strength to cast from the ground anyway.” He paused and looked at Hirad solemnly. “There is less chance of this succeeding than there was of defeating the Wytch Lords.”

  “Sha-Kaan isn't going to like that,” said Hirad.

  “Well, he'll just have to live with it.”

  “Or die with it,” returned Hirad, and he got to his feet, dusted down his trousers and leather and set off to Wingspread.

  “Who'd be a Dragonene, eh Unknown?” Ilkar tried to smile.

  “Who'd be any of us, Ilkar,” he replied. “Who'd be any of us.”

  They attack.

  The thought pulsed around the Protectors in the dawn light. The Wesmen were advancing, their dogs and archers before them. This was no charge and Aeb questioned the tactic with his brethren.

  Dogs in the vanguard, archers to weaken us, army to follow up.

  As one, the Protectors brought their weapons to the ready, each masked man unsheathing double handed sword and battle axe.

  We are enough to shield effectively. Aeb drove the idea around them. Concentration is everything. We are one. Fight as one.

  We are one, fight as one. The mantra echoed around their minds bringing them the strength of the Soul Tank and the belief in their invincibility. They were ready.

  From all sides, arrows flew and the dogs were unleashed. Their howls were drowned by the roars of the Wesmen. Think shield. They thought and the arrows bounced. The Wesmen roars faltered but the dogs drove on. Huge beasts, the size of newborn foals, their mouths thick with teeth, saliva dripping as they came. Another flight of arrows; no more than five pierced the shield and no Protectors fell. The dogs hit them.

  They had counted seventy Destranas, all hungry for the kill but all fighting on their own. Those at the front of the charge leapt for neck, thigh or stomach but the Protectors saw every angle of attack. Aeb struck down with his axe at the skull of a dog that leapt at the brother next to him. Two more blades thudded into the beast's neck and back. It died with a whimper.

  Aeb, blade left lower quarter.

  Aeb struck without looking, feeling his sword bite into a Destrana midriff. The thought had come as he sensed the animal, it was merely direction but it was all he needed. He pulled his axe clear to hammer it through the jaw of a third dog while his sword still skewered the terrified, crying animal on the ground to his left.

  Around the circle the orders flew and the blades and axes followed them. Seventy dogs was too few by at least three hundred and those that didn't run to hide behind the legs of their masters died without landing paw or fang on a single brother. Too slow, too obvious, too individual. It was why animals would never beat Protectors.

  Quiet fell over the ranks of the army and their commander hesitated before order
ing more arrows. Again the shield held and but one Protector took a wound in his thigh. He fell back to tend and direct until bandaged. Now the horns sounded and the encircled Protectors faced not a headlong charge but a careful, closed advance. Aeb could sense the nervousness as they advanced and pulsed his brothers to note it.

  Their commander has no heart for this fight. We scare him. Seek those who command. Fight as one. We are one.

  Fight as one, we are one. The second mantra echoed through their bodies. No thought was given to the overwhelming numbers who advanced toward them, only to the totality that was their being. The dogs were dead, their blood slicking the ground in the damp, drizzling morning. Their masters knew as never before that those first to the battle would die. It was inevitable.

  As is victory. We are Given, we may not fail.

  Lord Senedai fought to keep his mouth closed as he watched his war dogs slaughtered. Destranas were feared by all men, their ferocity and desire for the kill legendary. But these men, whatever they were, didn't so much as flinch, only taking a pace back when it gave them a better angle to strike. They seemed to know where an attack was coming from before it came and, though the distance might have confused his sight, he could swear some of them struck without looking. Struck and hit. This was no wild flailing, it was ordered, accurate power.

  And that scared Senedai more than anything else.

  The dogs had raced on in tight howling packs and had died whining, their bodies chopped and twitching. Senedai dragged himself back to the immediate with the baying shouts of his men dying to echoes in the mist and rain. An uneasy, fidgeting quiet gripped his army. None of them had seen a single enemy fall. Now they looked to him for orders, his signallers ready, standing expectant to his left.

  “My Lord?” prompted a Lieutenant. “We should not lose the impetus.”

  “I know!” snapped Senedai, then calmed himself. “I know. Signal an advance from all quarters. Slow march. Let's have them watch us massing right under their noses and fear what is about to overwhelm them. Front ranks only. Rear stand ready for my command.”