Noonshade

by James Barclay

  He shook his head and stared up at the quickly darkening sky. Rain fell on his face and pattered on the ground as it had done almost all day. Away in the forest, fires burned in half a dozen places and he could feel the heat of the closest though he knew it would not last. The rain let nothing last.

  His men, bloody and brave, had torn away at the Easterners throughout the afternoon, never quite breaking through and never drawing them on to open ground. But the enemy had put up stout resistance and their damned magic made up so much for their apparent lack of numbers.

  “What is it they are guarding?” Arnoan, ever at his side, asked the question Tessaya had never asked himself.

  “Guarding?” He frowned, and the ice cascaded down his back as realisation snapped through his body. “How long have we been fighting?”

  “Perhaps three hours, my Lord.”

  “I am a fool,” he muttered, then raised his voice to a roar. “Paleon! Disengage! Revion! Hold position! Taranon! Push eastern flank!” He turned to Arnoan, snatching at the old man's collar, drawing his face close. “Find Adesellere; he's in charge here. He is not to let them after us.”

  “What is it, my Lord?”

  “Don't you see? Are you blind? Darrick's sent men south to drive around while he occupies us. He's guarding an army that's heading for Senedai. Now go.”

  Tessaya sprinted back toward his camp, calling his tribes toward him. They were the only people he could trust now. Taomi had failed and his Liandon Tribes were shattered by Blackthorne. He wasn't even worth a defensive command. Once again, the Paleon held the fortunes of the Wesmen and if he had to run all night to catch the Easterners, that is exactly what he would do.

  Darrick lashed a kick into a Wesman knee, felt the bone crumple, hurdled the man whose axe had fallen useless from his hands and ran at the fleeing enemy. Shouts had echoed throughout the battlefield and the Wesmen had pulled away from his section entirely. Their move back toward their own camp had the hallmark of a phased retreat and for a second he was happy to let them go.

  But the weight of enemy left in the centre of the line and flooding across the front of the forest to block a chase Tessaya must know they wouldn't mount told a different story.

  Darrick stopped his charge and called his twin centile, what was left of it, to a halt.

  “He's worked us out,” he said to his Lieutenant. “We need a tactical withdrawal all the way back to the camp. I think they'll let us go. Find me our best Communion mage. I have to get through to Izack.”

  “Sir.” The Lieutenant set off at a run, ducking back into the depths of the forest.

  All around Darrick, the fighting was still fierce. FlameOrbs splashed through an area of dense brush to his left, scattering the Wesmen attackers. From either side of the fire, Balaian soldiers poured onto the stunned enemy, swords rising and falling, their dull thuds and occasional clashes telling where they bit. Right, a Wesmen surge had pushed back an isolated centile. As Darrick watched, a mage was felled by an arrow, depriving them of key attack.

  “To me!” yelled Darrick, leaping across the charred branch from a fallen tree, his men at his heels. “FlameOrb the back of the line, we'll take the flank.” He called as he ran.

  The Wesmen saw and heard them coming. Arrows whipped through the boughs, one flicking Darrick's hair on its way to bury itself in the eye of a man behind him.

  “I need those archers down!” Darrick thudded into the fray, his sword clashing with a Wesmen axe, sparks flying into the damp air. The General rotated his sword two-handed, loosening his enemy's grip, forced his weapon to the ground, leaned in and butted the man in the face. Blood surged from his nose and he staggered back. Darrick swept his blade up, knocked aside the half-made block and followed up with a straight thrust to the throat.

  Over his head, FlameOrbs sailed into the back of the line, splashing down and spreading mayhem, destroying man and brush alike and putting the shadows to flight. The unearthly orange flame licked at everything within its compass, sticking to fur and leaf, eating into it until beaten out by flat of axe or leather gauntlet.

  The beleaguered centile found renewed strength, stepping forward to take the attack to the Wesmen. To Darrick's left and right, the strikes went in with terrific ferocity, forcing the Wesmen into a desperate defence. Another FlameOrb dropped among them, Darrick split a skull, spraying gore and brain over his victim's companions and the Wesmen broke and ran.

  “Leave them,” ordered Darrick. He turned to his centile Captain. “Stay here, keep this flank free then withdraw slowly at your discretion. Don't chase anyone and keep a HardShield up.”

  “General.” The man nodded and swung round to issue orders. Darrick ran back to the centre of the now much subdued fighting.

  “Lieutenant! Where is my mage?”

  Hirad's dreams were troubled. Time and again, he awoke with a sense of falling, his heart hammering in his chest and painfully in his throat. And while he slept…

  Adrift in a vast sea of nothing. Below him, fire laced the land. Calls of pain and anguish flooded his mind and a sense of desperation suffused his wracked body.

  He was alone. Last and lost.

  Around him, the air was empty. No stars shone though it was dark, no cloud filled the sky. The only light flickered far below. And down there it was dead. He had nowhere to go.

  To stay above was to die. So was to move down.

  He fell.

  “Dreaming again, Hirad?” asked Ilkar from nearby. Night was full, warm and very quiet.

  Hirad nodded and sat up. “Emptiness,” he said. “I felt I was flying but nothing else was alive.”

  “Let's hope it's not prophetic in any way,” said the elf. “We're all anxious, Hirad. You're not alone in not sleeping.” Ilkar indicated himself. “Probably best you don't dream, eh?”

  Hirad nodded again. “Easy to say, hard to do. Anyway, I don't think I am. I think it's Sha-Kaan's dream.”

  He lay back down, smiling inside at Ilkar's raised eyebrows. This time, the Great Kaan soothed his mind into deep, dreamless sleep.

  “Damn it, I didn't think he'd tumble us. At least not so soon,” said Darrick.

  Blackthorne smiled and leaned back in his chair. “I told you he wasn't stupid,” he said.

  The command tent was a beacon of light in a darkening camp in which Darrick had forbidden all but vital fire light to give the Wesmen as little sight of them as possible. Dusk was upon them, the Balaians had been allowed to withdraw and an uneasy calm had settled over the camp.

  The Wesmen had stationed a hefty presence a respectful distance from their borders and were clearly unwilling to move in, fearful without their Lord to drive them.

  Darrick had sent mages out to check the surrounding numbers. The Wesmen covered the main trail, the forest and crags with squads and scouts but had chosen not to encircle the Balaians. Their remit was clear enough.

  The only good news was that Izack had not planned on stopping until within striking distance of Senedai's forces. He would however, have to move to a different position than planned in an effort to avoid Tessaya.

  “How many will he take with him?” asked Darrick.

  “Well,” said Blackthorne. “From your reports, Tessaya was separating his forces along tribal lines. The Paleon are numerous though they'll have taken casualties both in the battle for Understone and today. Even so, if he takes them all, it could be as many as four thousand.”

  Darrick gaped and his body felt hot. “Izack'll be slaughtered.”

  “Not unless Tessaya finds him,” reasoned Gresse.

  “He won't be hard to spot once he starts fighting,” said Darrick grimly. He passed a hand over his face, seeing his plan collapse. “What a shambles. We can't waste time taking them on here, there's no point. Look…How dense is the cover cragside?” He looked over to where a pair of his mage assassins awaited his next order.

  “Not as dense as in the forest, sir,” said one, scratching at two days’ growth of stubble. “We could clear
it a little.” He smiled slightly.

  “You'd have to clear it a lot to make a difference to our route,” Darrick said, seeing the man get his train of thought.

  “There are eight of us,” said the assassin. “Anything is possible. They don't have cross-reporting, they are merely expected to shout if they see anything.”

  “Make them unable to shout, will you?” asked Darrick.

  The assassin nodded. “We will prepare immediately.” He gestured his companion to follow him from the tent.

  Darrick turned back to find the eyes of the Barons and his surviving centile Captains wide on him. He shrugged.

  “What choice do we really have?” He spread his arms wide, shrugging.

  “They will see us and they will follow us,” said Gresse. “It can't work.”

  Darrick shook his head. “If we all trooped out together, yes. But we won't. Here is what I want done. I want every able-bodied man brought to the rear of the camp. No injured will be coming. I need a token presence to remain here, highly visible. I suggest the cavalry.

  “We will walk a mile back down the trail before turning up into the crags, using the mages to assess threat ahead. We will run all night if we have to but I will not let Izack die uselessly.”

  “And what about the wounded and those you leave behind?” asked Blackthorne. “Even should you succeed in this harebrained scheme, when dawn breaks they will be overwhelmed and suffer the fate you so wish Izack to avoid.” His voice, low and stern, was tinged with anger.

  Darrick smiled, hoping to defuse it. “There's more. Once the runners are away, I need volunteers to help the injured to move out of the camp and hide elsewhere.” He stared squarely at the two Barons.

  “And the visible force?” asked Gresse.

  “When the Wesmen work it out and rush in, ride like the wind.” His smile broadened as he saw Gresse's eyes sparkle with the thought of it all. “Well? What do you think? If we pull this off, we can make a real difference, maybe even turn the tide and give The Raven the time they need.” He looked around the assembled command team. “Are you with me?”

  To a man, his Captains nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Baron Blackthorne?”

  “A nursemaid to the sick, eh?”

  “I prefer to see it as a defender of the helpless,” said Darrick. “Far more glory in that, I think. Baron Gresse?”

  “Young man, you are an outrageous risk taker. Outrageous enough to win. I'll have the horses ready as dawn cracks the sky.”

  Darrick clapped his hands together, feeling the excitement surge within him, banishing the aches and tiredness of the afternoon's fighting. “Then let's get moving, because we really don't have the time to waste.”

  Fires were alight all across the Broodlands when Hirad awoke, rested but still tired. He rolled over and sat up, joining The Raven in complete bemusement at what he saw.

  The fires were strung, three dozen strong, along the banks of the river, casting an eerie yellow light that reflected from the mist, covering the Broodlands in pale luminescence.

  And what the light showed was thousands of Vestare in groups and teams, some examining weapons and stitching armour but most tending to the hundreds of dragons covering every inch of free space. Vestare fussed about necks, wings, heads and talons, applying balms, singing songs and saying prayers to the Skies for Brood victory. They were tiny against the immense bodies of the Kaan, who stretched out their full lengths, many reaching well in excess of one hundred feet, their hulking bodies towering sometimes as much as fifteen feet. Great heads rested on the ground, some with jaws wide while the Vestare crawled in to spread their protective and healing creams on the flame ducts.

  The sense of size was awe-inspiring and The Raven stared on, eyes roving the massive flanks, the twitching wings bigger than the largest warship sail and the muscled necks that carried those huge skulls.

  “How long has this been going on?” asked Hirad.

  “It seems like ages,” said Ilkar. “And I cannot believe you slept through it for so long.”

  “Kept that way, I think,” said Hirad. He nodded in the direction of Wingspread, outside of which Sha-Kaan had just appeared. “Come on, he'll have a few things to say to us.”

  “And I shall have some to say to him,” said Styliann, striding off, his three disinterested Protectors in his wake.

  “What's got into him?” asked Ilkar.

  “He's been muttering about ‘organising things better afterward’ ever since he woke up,” said Denser.

  “And he's planning on telling this to Sha-Kaan now?” Hirad looked after the hurrying figure.

  “I expect so.” Denser shrugged.

  “Mistake,” said Hirad, heading for Wingspread. “Big mistake.”

  The set of Styliann's shoulders told of a no-compromise showdown with the one-hundred-and-twenty-foot Great Kaan who was preparing for the ultimate battle. Hirad knew he'd talk to The Raven because of their immediate role. Aside from that, he would be tended for flight and fight. Nothing else was open to conversation.

  Hirad, trotting quickly ahead of the rest of The Raven, caught Styliann before he reached Wingspread.

  “Styliann, I think I should be doing the talking,” he said. The Xetesk master hardly broke stride to look at him.

  “Ah, Hirad the Dragonene. There are matters of great importance to iron out. Now is a keenly appropriate time. I think I can make myself heard.”

  “Styliann, you don't understand,” said Hirad.

  The Dark Mage stopped, he and his Protectors surrounding Hirad. “Oh, I think I understand very well. And this one-way deal is about to be changed.”

  “What?” Hirad gasped.

  “Stop him,” ordered Styliann, his eyes wild. He set off again only this time the Protectors barred Hirad's path. He tried to push them aside but they wouldn't yield.

  “Get out of my way,” said Hirad, anger rising.

  Silence.

  “Don't you get it? Just who is it you're protecting? Because if you don't move, it certainly won't be Styliann, unless you want to guard a smouldering corpse.” He tried to push past them again, one shoved him back roughly. Hirad's sword was out in a moment. The Protectors came to ready.

  “Hirad, no.” The Unknown's sharp tone stopped him in his tracks. “They'll kill you.” He was at Hirad's shoulder. “lie, Rya, Cil, he speaks the truth. Let him pass.”

  The Protectors sheathed weapons and stepped aside. Hirad ran through, The Raven behind him, and was quick enough to hear Styliann begin to speak. Vestare fretted around Sha-Kaan's head. The old dragon had his eyes closed, his neck resting on the ground and his body half in the river. Styliann stood silent for a while, Septern's texts clutched to his chest, as if summoning the courage to speak.

  “Sha-Kaan,” he said. He was ignored. “Great Kaan, I must be heard.”

  Sha-Kaan's head moved and his eyes opened. He took in Styliann with his cool blue gaze, in a lazy sweep that encompassed The Raven running up behind. He settled on the Xeteskian, his jaws stretching a little.

  “This is not a granted audience,” said Sha-Kaan, his voice low and sonorous. “Leave.”

  “No,” said Styliann. “Make it granted.”

  Sha-Kaan's eyes narrowed and his head shot forward, bowling two Vestare from their feet. His snout all but touched Styliann's waist. “Never presume to speak to me in that manner,” growled the Great Kaan. “You are not, and never will be, my Dragonene.”

  “My tone was not meant to offend,” said Styliann. “But there is little time and—”

  “I must prepare. Leave.”

  “—there is a chance the spell will not be cast,” continued Styliann smoothly.

  That stopped them all. Sha-Kaan drew back his head sharply, his eyes blinking slowly, breath hissing into his cavernous lungs. Hirad turned and shot Denser and Ilkar a glance. Both shrugged their ignorance while Erienne frowned deeply, mouth moving wordlessly. Sha-Kaan grabbed Hirad's attention with a sharp mind-jab.

&n
bsp; “How is this possible?” he demanded.

  “Great Kaan, I have no idea. It is not a problem raised by The Raven's mages,” said Hirad.

  “I understood there to be a certain casting but that there were risks as to its outcome.” Sha-Kaan's voice was flat, cold and very angry. Hirad shuddered. It was Styliann who spoke.

  “That is indeed the case. It is merely that there is a feeling that Balaia needs assurances of your continued support and future aid in legitimate struggle.” The air temperature seemed to cool. Sha-Kaan moved his head back in close to Styliann.

  “Assurances,” he said.

  Hirad noticed the Vestare had backed away from the dragon's neck and head. He turned to The Raven and muttered:

  “Just in case. Give yourselves room. That goes for your Protectors too, Unknown.”

  “You don't think—” began Denser.

  Hirad shook his head. “I would doubt it but, you know…Let me try and sort this out, all right?” He walked briskly up to stand beside Sha-Kaan's head, facing Styliann, whose face was set stubborn.

  “I feel there must have been a misunderstanding, Great Kaan,” he said, feeling the dragon's ire hot in his mind.

  “Let us hope so,” replied Sha-Kaan. There was menace in his voice that Styliann clearly did not read.

  “No misunderstanding,” he said, a slight smile on his face.

  “Styliann, I'm warning you to back off. This is not the time,” said Hirad, hand back on the hilt of his sword.

  “Hm.” Styliann lifted a finger, apparently framing his next words. “I realise that time is of the essence so let me make myself very clear.” His eyes locked with Sha-Kaan's. “I take it, your honour is not in question.”

  “I am a Kaan dragon,” came the reply.

  “Exactly. Here is what will happen. You, the Kaan, will agree to help me regain my College. You will also help me in negotiating treaties with the Wesmen and the other Colleges. If you do not, I fear I will be unable to assist in the casting of the spell to close the rip; a fact that will render it uncastable.”

  “But if you do not assist, you will die,” said Sha-Kaan.