Noonshade

by James Barclay

  The flags went up, the horns sounded and the Wesmen advanced. Senedai's heart thudded in his chest as he moved up behind the front ranks, shouting encouragement, exhorting them to keep a slow pace as if any near him desired to charge to certain death.

  From the ruins of the Manse there was no reaction. The small force stood ready, blood dripping from swords and axes, masked faces offering nothing, bodies exuding controlled aggression. Behind Senedai, an order signalled more arrows. More waste. A flight of one hundred turned aside by the cursed invisible barrier. But there was no mage.

  “What in all the hells is going on?” Senedai shouted, frustration burning hot. “Who are these men?” he muttered under his breath, afraid again.

  Forty paces from battle, the spirit chant began. Rumbling from the front lines in every direction, it rolled over the Wesmen army, setting Senedai's skin tingling and refreshing his flagging confidence. It was the song to greet enemy steel, the song to accept death like a warrior if it should strike and the song to bind the spirits to the Wesmen nation forever.

  Over and over, the growled words, only twenty in all, emitted from the lips of the army, rising to a cacophony that drowned the clashing of weapons and the tramp of many thousands of feet. At the last, the march broke, the tempo of the chant increasing, driving the warriors on. In front of them, the masked force moved, axes raised, swords pointed to the ground, prepared to repel as the Wesmen wave broke over them.

  Threat hung heavy in the morning air, lowering dark with the clouds above that dispensed a light drizzle but promised a downpour.

  Darrick had marched his army directly toward the waiting horde, demanding order and speed. He knew they would be watching, just as his scouts watched them, and he needed the Wesmen to report determination and confidence. So he drilled them as they marched, the cavalry marking time ahead, never once breaking stride.

  In open fields a little over a mile from where Tessaya's army camped, he brought the column to a halt. A single horn blast was followed by a tumult of orders from a hundred mouths and each man, elf and mage knew what they had to do. Defensive positions were set, a perimeter established, the command post erected and regimental lines drawn up. Mages stood by sword guards, elven eyes scoured the Grethern Forest to the south and the bare rises north. Fire and cess pits were dug, tents sprouted, animals were picketed and guarded, the quartermasters’ and armourers’ wagons emptied and stores and forges were in operation less than an hour after their arrival.

  Darrick turned from the preparation with a smile tugging at his lips. “Not bad,” he said, “when you consider that less than a thousand out there are seasoned campaign soldiers.”

  Blackthorne chuckled. “Well, Blackthorne farmers and winegrowers have always been practical.”

  Darrick looked hard, unsure if Blackthorne was joking. Gresse confirmed it for him.

  “And the victorious defenders from Gyernath just stand and admire, eh Blackthorne?”

  “They've been allowed to assist my specialists,” said Blackthorne, his eyes twinkling beneath his dark brows. Darrick cleared his throat.

  “It should give the Wesmen scouts something to think about,” he said.

  “I expect Tessaya will be scared rigid when he hears of the construction efficiency of Blackthorne's vintners and vintagers,” said Gresse. Darrick scowled at the levity and Gresse's expression hardened. “Sorry, General. Tell us when you plan to ride in?” He sat on one of the six chairs unfolded around the map table in the command tent.

  “We'll have lunch, then I will raise the parley flag and leave here with a small guard of a dozen cavalry.”

  “And us,” said Blackthorne.

  “I beg your pardon?” Darrick frowned and again looked hard at the tall stern Baron. He saw no hint of humour this time.

  “I know Tessaya. He buys, or rather bought, my finest wines. He might listen to me,” said Blackthorne.

  “And you, Baron Gresse?”

  “I will ride with my friend and you to add support and gravitas. Tessaya must not see this as merely a gambit. A deputation of three senior Balaians might sway him.”

  Darrick nodded. “Very well. I'll not say I couldn't use the support. Tessaya will be a difficult man so far into our lands.” He felt a relief he knew he shouldn't as a General but there was some physical aspect about the two Barons that inspired confidence. He saw it as a matter-of-fact determination to succeed, a refusal to accept the possibility of defeat. Surely it was what their people saw and why a handful of soldiers and an army of farmers could have such a bearing on the war.

  “Will he respect the parley flag?” asked Darrick.

  “Yes,” said Blackthorne immediately. “And not because he is particularly honourable. But he is an intelligent man unwilling to sacrifice his people if he can secure victory by negotiated surrender.”

  “But given to poor judgement at crucial times,” said Darrick. “For instance, he could have faced us at Understone in a far stronger position. I believe he panicked.”

  “Possibly,” said Blackthorne. “But don't assume he'll err again.”

  Two hours later, the three men rode from the camp, their guard in echelon formation behind them, a single rider ahead carrying the green and white halved flag to indicate peaceful parley.

  A quarter of a mile from the Wesmen army, they were flanked by thirty Wesmen axe-bearers who trotted beside the horses, melting wordlessly out of the forest. It was an honour guard and Darrick paradoxically felt a little easier than when they were alone though he indicated that the two mage riders maintain their shields.

  Shortly afterward, they reached the top of a rise and the Wesmen were below them. Covering an area probably a quarter of a mile on a side, the camp sprawled across pasture and cropland. Dozens of fires burned into the damp early afternoon sky, banners and standards hung limp and tents hugged the ground in carefully spaced order. Forsaking their trademark towers and stockades with time against them, the Wesmen instead had mounted a heavy border presence of warriors. A sneak attack on this camp would not work and Tessaya wanted them to know it.

  Passing into the camp, Darrick's ease evaporated. Thousands of eyes turned to stare, the hum of work and talk fell away and a savage hostility pervaded the atmosphere. From all parts of the camp, Wesmen warriors ran to get a closer look at the enemy in their midst and, here and there, Shamen in cloak and paint issued forward, gazing malevolently at the parley group, their hands and mouths moving, cursing.

  But none broke the honour guard which shouldered its way through the increasing press, heading for a tent like all the others save the heavy security surrounding it and the dozen standards driven into the ground either side of its entrance, forming a tight walkway.

  A short walk from the tent, the honour guard brought the parade to a halt, indicating that the Balaians dismount.

  “Stay with the horses.” Darrick instructed the squad leader, an elven mage. “Don't look any warrior in the eye and keep those shields firm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Darrick looked beyond the elf, whose curt confident nod belied the fear that had to be crawling in his belly, and saw the gathering mob of Wesmen pressing in toward the command tent on all sides. If the talks went wrong, there would be nowhere to run.

  “Have faith,” said Blackthorne, picking up his mood. “Should we die, your army still has everyone it needs to win.”

  “How comforting to think they don't really need me,” said Darrick.

  “You know what I mean.”

  The brown canvas of the tent flap was pulled aside and an old Shaman beckoned them in.

  The tent was plainly furnished. To the left, a low pallet, tidy and made up. To the right, a serving table decked with meat, bread, jugs and goblets. To either side of the door, a Wesman guard and, in front of them, a table with a single chair. The old Shaman, dressed in plain brown shift, moved to stand behind Lord Tessaya who sat upright, gazing at them over a half-eaten plate of food.

  “Welcome to my lands,�
�� he said, a harsh smile cracking his tanned features.

  “I thank you for granting us audience,” said Darrick, ignoring Tessaya's crude attempt at baiting. “There is a critical matter to discuss that affects both our peoples.”

  “Yes,” said Tessaya. “Your surrender that confirms Wesmen ascension in Balaia and stops pointless death.” He looked past Darrick. “Baron Blackthorne, it is as ever a pleasure.”

  “I trust we shall soon be able to share the finest bottle from my cellars, my Lord,” responded Blackthorne. “Assuming your departing force failed to find the way in. But unless you hear General Darrick, that pleasure will be denied us all.”

  The Shaman leaned in and whispered into Tessaya's ear. The Wesman Lord nodded.

  “I am already aware of your desperate search for help beyond this world. And even if you delay me here with meaningless talk, my kin Lord, Senedai, will destroy the Manse and then your precious Raven. He will soon overwhelm the Xeteskian unmen and, when he does, Balaia and another world will be open to my conquering armies. Speak, General Darrick. Let us see if you are as good a talker as you are a soldier.” Tessaya leaned back in his chair and took a deep draught of the goblet at his right hand. At a snap of his fingers, a door guard ran to the table to grab a jug for refill.

  “Balaia is under threat. There is a hole in the sky that hangs above Parve. It links our world to another and it must be closed if we are not to be invaded by dragons. The Raven go to complete that task. If Lord Senedai stops them, we will all die. I have come here to ask you to stop him before he commits a monumental crime in the name of the Wesmen nation.” Darrick searched Tessaya's face for signs that he was really listening. He felt his face go cold as the contempt spread across the Wesman Lord's features.

  “You must think me a stupid man and that makes me very unhappy,” he said. “You should have respect for all I have achieved and yet you invent tales that a backward child would not believe.”

  “He speaks the truth,” said Blackthorne. “And you know me as a man of honour. I would not lie to you.”

  “What I know is that desperate men will set aside their principles when death is the reward for keeping them,” said Tessaya smoothly. “And I will tell you what is the truth. Indeed dragons will come here, completing a prophecy of our ancients unless I can stop them. And stop them, I will. There is no threat from the mark in the sky. My messengers tell me it is merely the fire mark of Parve, destroyed by your hands. I will not listen to you while your allies seek the only power that can halt the Wesmen march to Korina.

  “And yet I will show you more respect than you show me. If you want to stop the Wesmen and you refuse honourable surrender, it will have to be on the battlefield. So go and prepare for the fight, if you have the stomach for it. Under the terms of parley, you have three hundred counts to leave my camp. That count has started.” He turned his attention to the food remaining on his plate.

  Behind Darrick, the tent flap was pulled aside but he ignored it, striding forward to bang his hands on the table, shaking the plate and upsetting the goblet which pirouetted over, spilling its liquid on the grass.

  “And what if I do tell the truth and your men stop The Raven from closing the hole? It will be too late to ask for forgiveness when dragons are laying waste to Balaia, and they will fly over Wesmen lands first.” Darrick felt his anger burning. He heard a weapon drawn but ignored it. “What will you do?”

  Tessaya met his stare, waving a hand to keep his guards back. He smiled. “If that is what you believe then you had better hope The Raven can outwit my northern army. The count continues.”

  Blackthorne and Gresse came to Darrick's shoulders and gently drew him back.

  “I understand your scepticism,” said Blackthorne. “Yet it doesn't change the reality. As a gesture of good faith, Gresse and I will remain here as your prisoners. Should what we say turn out to be untrue, we will be at your mercy.”

  Tessaya pushed a spoonful of meat into his mouth and chewed, talking around the food and pointing the spoon at Blackthorne.

  “You are a brave man, Baron, and I have nothing but admiration for your defeat of my southern army. I almost lament the destruction of your town but such are the necessities of war. You make a generous offer but what hollow victory will it be, placing your two noble heads on spikes while my people are killed by your dragon allies?

  “Do you not understand? I am soon to march to victory in Korina once I have defeated you here. I will rule Balaia. So you see, you are already at my mercy.” He turned to his Shaman who nodded and moved quickly to the tent door.

  “Arnoan will escort you to the borders of the camp. I will see you in battle.”

  The three senior Balaians looked at each other. Darrick felt a sense of desperation sweep over him and, for a moment, considered breaking the parley to kill Tessaya. But he could not and he knew Blackthorne and Gresse would move to stop him. Tessaya's point-blank refusal to believe him was quite predictable but it left The Raven helpless should Senedai defeat the Protectors.

  Stalking from the audience, he found himself praying that Xetesk's abominations would live up to their reputation.

  Sha-Kaan flew from Wingspread with the orb beginning its fall from the sky. The Great Kaan, tired from his exertions in battle and without a melde-corridor now Hirad Coldheart was in his domain, stretched aching wings to catch the winds in the heights, heading again for the Shedara Ocean to find Tanis-Veret, if his altemelde was still alive.

  The cold air brought a clarity of thought to the Great Kaan, his speed driving ice into his lungs when he opened his mouth to breathe, serving also to quell his anger at Hirad Coldheart's words. He found he could see through the haze of his own mind at what his Dragonene's words actually meant.

  And that hatched unusual feelings. Sha-Kaan was used to having his orders fulfilled without question or error. Yet The Raven had told him there was no certainty of success in their mission and Hirad had introduced him to a Balaian concept quite alien to him—that the best a man could possibly do had to be considered enough, even if it meant ultimate failure or even death. Sha-Kaan had let his contempt show. He should have killed the puny human then and there but once again Hirad had managed to stay him with irrefutable logic.

  “Kill me and you'll never know if we would have succeeded and you will die. If we do fail, we'll all die in the attempt anyway and you will have your wish.” Spoken calmly. Sha-Kaan had laughed but it hadn't dampened his anger. Not then.

  Now, flying to a meeting that had to bear fruit, he could understand the effort The Raven had made. He could feel their desire for success and he knew they were aware of the consequences of failure for themselves, for Balaia and for the Kaan. But knowing isn't the same as doing.

  Another new emotion flashed through his body. Deep fear. He had been scared before; of injury, of facing the anger of his kin, and of his spawn dying before reaching maturity. But this was different. The fear marked the possibility that the entire Brood Kaan might become extinct and more, that they no longer wielded the weapons that could change that possibility. The Raven did.

  They had to be protected at all costs which meant peeling defence from the gateway. He had too few healthy dragons. Elu-Kaan shimmered on the borders of death without his Dragonene to help him, reliant on the ministrations of the Vestare; and every melde-corridor was in use. The Kaan needed help and there was only one Brood that might turn. The tragedy was that it had been the Veret they had targeted in the last battle, knowing that to drive them off would break the Naik stranglehold. It had worked, but if the Veret refused him now, the death and maiming would have been for nothing.

  Stooping from the heights with night full in the Shedaran sky, he feared the Kaan had done too thorough a job. No guard flew to meet him, no Veret sought revenge. None patrolled their air borders and the water below was still.

  He landed on the meeting rock, pushed his head beneath the surface of the ocean and roared into its impenetrable depths. With his mind, he sought
Tanis-Veret, pulsing his sorrow and his desperation at what had occurred in the skies over Teras. He pulsed his need and roared his urgency. He could only pray to the Skies that his altemelde heard him.

  Sha-Kaan withdrew his head and lay flat across the rock, neck stretched in front of him. It was to keep his muscles extended and to appear in an attitude of deference from above but more it allowed his body sensors to cover the sea-drenched dark island, searching for vibrations from the water around him.

  He waited for what felt an eternity in another's Brood space, exposed and vulnerable should attack come. Ultimately, though, he was rewarded. A thrumming through the rock told of the approach of a large dragon, powering up from the depths. Sha-Kaan sat up, neck to the formal “s” to greet Tanis-Veret as he exploded into the sky, water flying in all directions, waves rippling away from his exit point.

  Water cascaded from his black-smeared body as he rose into the sky, trim wings angled for lift and tattered on the trailing edge. He bellowed his displeasure and fired a long breath into the air during a slow circle of the rock before landing heavily, tail sweeping water over his scarred lower back. His neck reared up, his eyes skewering Sha-Kaan with a malevolent stare.

  “Here to preside over the final destruction of the Veret, Sha-Kaan?” He took in the sky as if expecting it to fill with enemy dragons.

  “No, Tanis-Veret, I am here to offer your Brood a chance of salvation,” said Sha-Kaan, allowing his head to bow slightly in a fractional expression of humility.

  “Hollow words,” spat the old Veret. “Your eyes have not seen what you have wrought.”

  “And now we—”

  “Beneath our feet, the remnants of my Brood cling to the faint hope the Naik will honour their promise and leave us in peace when the Kaan are destroyed. Fewer than seventy of us remain, many near death in our melde-corridors. Of those that can still fly, I am the least wounded and the scales of my back will never knit, such was the ferocity of Kaan fire, claw and fang.” Tanis-Veret met Sha-Kaan's gaze again and his voice became an echo of itself, broken and exhausted. “I cannot even spare the kin to defend my borders. Leave us, Sha-Kaan; you have done enough.”