Noonshade

by James Barclay

  The Manse was gone.

  From the Wesmen, a ragged cheer grew, picked up by voice after voice. Axes flew in the air, warriors embraced and songs of victory ripped from a thousand mouths.

  Darrick held up a hand and his men stopped moving. He watched silently as the Protectors, weapons now sheathed, stooped to collect the masks of their dead, picked their way among the fallen and moved away. The Wesmen saw them and backed off, letting them go, as if sensing the passing of something. Or perhaps they were just happy not to be fighting the masked killers any more.

  Slowly, the singing died away as more and more of the Wesmen gathered to one side of the now empty battlefield by Septern Manse. It wasn't over. Victory was not yet theirs. Darrick and his army still faced them, and they weren't moving.

  The two sides watched each other closely, the Wesmen ranks parting to allow a man through to stand at their head. Tessaya.

  “General Darrick!” he called.

  “Lord Tessaya,” returned Darrick across the gap of some one hundred yards that now separated the two armies. Any survivors from the Wesmen second line had run to join their kin; at least Darrick wasn't surrounded but he was outnumbered.

  “Perhaps we should parley again, discuss your surrender.”

  “I don't think so,” said Darrick and behind him, his men cheered. “After all, you didn't believe me last time and I do consider myself a man of my word.”

  He gestured west, far across the Blackthornes where the rip had dominated the sky like a second menacing moon.

  “You see, The Raven were trying to save us all and I'll be damned if I let them return to a land ruled by you, Tessaya.”

  “Brave words for a man in your delicate position,” said Tessaya. “You are not in a position to make demands and even your best warriors have given up.” He wafted a hand at the Protectors who, walking away toward Xetesk, had stopped and were looking into the sky even as he indicated them. He shrugged. “And how, might I ask, will your Raven return at all? The hole to your allies has been most effectively plugged.”

  An alien sound echoed distantly. It was a sound Darrick had heard before but, this time, he gambled it did not signal an enemy.

  “There are ways, Lord Tessaya.”

  The Protectors had not moved on, their masked faces still scouring the sky. Three dots had appeared on the horizon, high up and closing incredibly fast.

  “I do believe they are coming now.”

  “As if it would make any difference,” said Tessaya. “Meet me in the middle and we will discuss your surrender. Refuse and I shall bleed every last one of you.”

  “The Raven might not make a difference. Their friends, though, might.” He turned to his nearest Captain. “Gods, I hope I'm right. Those are dragons coming this way. Pray The Raven are aboard them or we'll all be dead momentarily.”

  He walked toward the waiting Tessaya.

  In no man's land between the opposing armies, the two men met, their bows respectful, the distance between them deferential.

  “It is a complex situation, is it not?” noted Tessaya, his face smug.

  “Not particularly,” responded Darrick. “Your armies have invaded our lands, we have stopped you every step of the way and now you seek to negotiate a surrender to ease what would otherwise be a very uncertain path.”

  Tessaya folded his arms across his broad chest. Darrick could see drying blood on his forearms and furs. “An interesting view but, given the fact that I have already forced the surrender of the pitiful band you sent through my forest yesterday, I feel you are both outnumbered and hold no cards. I hold many lives and I will not hesitate to crush them.”

  Darrick risked a glance to his right and saw the dots increasing in size. He wouldn't have long to bluff now.

  “Very well,” he said, allowing his head to drop very slightly. “State your terms. Let me hear your version of honourable surrender.”

  Tessaya chuckled, a breeze ruffling his hair, the rain easing to a stop as he spoke. He spread his hands wide.

  “Even the rains await my words,” he said. “I do not wish to see any more fighting. All those standing behind you will lay down their arms and place themselves under the control of my Captains. They will be held here until suitable work can be found.

  “You will accompany my victorious army to Korina where you will negotiate the surrender of the city to me. You and all of your soldiers will be well treated. Third—”

  A ripple of consternation ran through the lines of Wesmen and Balaians. Tessaya half turned, a frown crossing his face. Now it was Darrick's turn to look smug.

  “Sorry, my Lord but those terms and any that follow are unacceptable,” he said. His heart was pounding and again he sent a silent prayer that it was Kaan dragons approaching.

  “You are under no—”

  “Be silent!” thundered Darrick, the power of his voice rolling over Tessaya, who flinched visibly. “You questioned my word, Wesman, and now you are about to regret that decision. You asked where The Raven might come from. Look to your left and look in the sky. There you will find your answer.”

  Without looking himself, he pointed, seeing Tessaya's head turn as if against his will. He watched the Wesman Lord pale and his mouth drop open. All around them, the consternation turned to shouts of warning and fear. On both sides, men broke and ran, the Balaian commanders shouting for calm; their Wesmen counterparts fleeing with their men.

  To his credit, Tessaya did not bolt, choosing instead to back away to where his men once stood.

  Looking at last, Darrick saw the dragons losing height as they rushed in, still coming at extraordinary speeds. And there was no doubting the flashes of colour against the radiant gold that he could see on each neck.

  He opened his mouth and roared with laughter.

  The Wesmen had launched arrows, they had made dummy charges and they had taunted, denouncing the courage of the Easterners. But the four-College cavalry, with Blackthorne and Gresse at its head, had faced them down, knowing they could wheel and outdistance their enemy at any given moment.

  Eventually, as Blackthorne had guessed, the Wesman commander's curiosity had got the better of him and, under the red and white Wesmen flag of truce, he had come forward alone. Blackthorne and Gresse had ridden out to meet him. The conversation had been short.

  “I am Adesellere. I would have your names.”

  “Blackthorne and Gresse, Barons,” Blackthorne had replied.

  “Where are the rest of your forces?” Only then had Gresse worked out Blackthorne's theory and why the Wesmen hadn't simply charged in, putting the cavalry to flight.

  “Well now,” Blackthorne had said, his tribal Wes all but faultless. “It is possible that they are dispersed around this camp, waiting to strike at you as you advance. Alternatively, they may have marched from here in the dead of night, north across the crags to fight your army at Septern Manse.

  “You can find this out by advancing in here and you know we will ride out of your way. But then you might die. Or, you can march toward the Manse. You should be there before dark. Which is it to be? I know which I'd choose.”

  Behind them, tent flaps snapped in the breeze. The rain still fell. Adesellere had looked past him to the rows of tents. All silent but all potentially containing sudden death.

  “You will not halt the march of the Wesmen forever,” Adesellere had said. And he had turned and led his warriors from the battlefield.

  Half an hour later, Blackthorne and the cavalry still sat on horseback. The odd scout had ridden out, reporting back that the Wesmen were indeed marching east at a healthy pace.

  “Well, my friends,” said Blackthorne. “I think it's time we went to collect our wounded. They would be so much more comfortable here.”

  He wheeled his horse, the cavalry following suit. It was then the cries went up. Forging toward them, three shapes came out of the shadow of the sky over the Blackthorne Mountains, travelling at extraordinary pace. Gresse thought to turn to ask an elf but it
was clear to them all what was coming.

  “Dismount! Dismount!” The Captain roared as the horses, sensing new and awful danger, began to stamp or buck. The order was obeyed immediately and the horses, once free of human control, took flight, scattering in the face of the threat from above.

  “Dear Gods,” said Gresse, a painful lump in his throat, his heart beating wildly. He was sweating. The backs of his hands, his forehead, his back and his breath stuttered in his lungs. He couldn't move and beside him Blackthorne didn't either.

  The dragons closed, the gold of their bodies sparkling in the muted rain swept sky. Lower they came, and lower, and one emitted a piercing bark as they raced overhead, swooping by. Gresse spun around, almost losing his footing. He could have sworn he heard laughter as they passed.

  He shuddered as they disappeared behind the hill line and turned back to Blackthorne. The Baron's smile split his face and he clapped a trembling hand on Gresse's shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  “Didn't you see them?” he asked, pointing after the dragons.

  “See them? I could hardly bloody miss them. I almost filled my trousers.”

  “No.” And Blackthorne began to laugh. “Riding them. Oh my dear Gresse, we've done it. That was The Raven.”

  “You're…” Gresse looked again. The dragons had disappeared. Relief flooded him.

  “My Lords?” It was the cavalry Captain. His helm was off and his face pale beneath it. He held a small, ornate presentation case in his hands.

  “Yes, Captain,” said Blackthorne.

  “I thought perhaps we could all do with some of this.” He opened the case to reveal a small bottle of Blackthorne grape spirit and four shot glasses. “I've been keeping it. For a special occasion. I think this qualifies.”

  “My dear boy,” said Gresse, his mind singing, his head light as if he'd imbibed a good deal already. “You have made an ageing man very happy.”

  Hirad could see the opposing armies but he couldn't see the ruins of the Manse. Sha-Kaan arrowed down, sending one more chill of fear through Hirad as he felt himself slide just that little bit further down the neck than was good for his heart. He could see where the Great Kaan was going to land and so could those on the ground. He cheered as men scattered, hearing terrified cries and hapless orders for calm float up on the wind as they closed.

  Sha-Kaan lifted his neck, angled his body and thumped his legs down. Hirad immediately snatched a dagger from his belt and cut at his ropes, suddenly desperate to feel the grass beneath his feet, slicked with blood though it may be. The Great Kaan lowered his neck and Hirad slid off, his legs failing to hold his weight. Immediately, arms were about his shoulders, helping him to his feet, every muscle in thigh and calf screaming for rest.

  He turned around and came face to face with Darrick. He smiled and the two men hugged, Hirad thumping the other's back.

  “Still alive then?” he said as they separated.

  “Still alive,” agreed Darrick. “Listen, celebrations later. For now, there's a Wesmen army just the other side of this dragon.”

  Hirad laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. “Sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes. “What a choice of phrase.” He steadied himself. “Look, the war's over. You need to negotiate Wesmen withdrawal from east of the Blackthorne Mountains. If they don't want to play, I can arrange a demonstration, if you get my meaning.”

  Darrick smiled and clapped him on the shoulders. “I'll see what I can do.” He strode off to meet the Wesmen.

  Hirad ambled to Sha-Kaan's head where the rest of The Raven had gathered to watch Darrick talk to Tessaya. He laid a hand on the dragon's head.

  “Thank you, Great Kaan.”

  The old dragon opened one eye and fixed him with a myopic stare. “You have saved the Kaan, you and your Raven. It is I who should be thanking you.”

  “So why the sadness? You don't sound at all happy.”

  “We have lost the Manse and that is a great loss to us for it contained a gateway and that gateway, like the one in your sky, has gone. I am unsure where to look for more.”

  “I don't think I understand,” said Hirad.

  “He's saying he thinks they're stuck here,” said Erienne. “At least for now.”

  “But you can get them home, can't you?” asked Hirad. “Soon?” His eyes took in all three mages. Their heads shook.

  “I don't know,” said Ilkar.

  Hirad faced Sha-Kaan once again. “You knew this might happen, didn't you? That's why you came here, to see if Septern's rip still worked?”

  “Of course,” said Sha-Kaan. “But what are the lives of three dragons in the cause of a Brood. It was a small sacrifice.”

  Hirad was lost for words. “We'll get you back. Somehow.” He smiled. “After all, we are The Raven.”

  “Does your conceit know no end?” asked Denser, his eyes shining.

  “No,” said Hirad. He took it all in. Darrick talking to Tessaya, the Wesman Lord nodding, his eyes fixed on the trio of Kaan that rested in front of him. The Unknown, shaking hands with every surviving Protector. Denser and Erienne in each other's arms, their faces alight, their eyes speaking love. Sha-Kaan, his head up and surveying his new home, his bright blue eyes missing nothing, his thoughts dominated by triumph, sadness and great hope. And Ilkar, arms folded, smiling to himself and shaking his head at the thought of it all.

  They had done it. The Raven. Again. He conceded it was hard to take in.

  Only Thraun was missing. The big blond warrior had disappeared almost immediately after they had landed, slipping off the dragon and moving soundlessly away. He needed to be alone. Hirad understood that. He'd make himself known when he was ready.

  A shout of alarm rang from the Balaian army. Fingers pointed back toward the demolished Wesmen camp. Hirad followed their line.

  “Leave him,” he ordered. “He'll not harm you.”

  Thraun loped up to Hirad, who crouched in front of him and stroked his head.

  “Wouldn't have done that if you were in human form,” he said. A sad smile touched his lips. “Oh, Thraun, what the hell have you done?”

  The wolf regarded him solemnly, his yellow-flecked eyes moist. He sniffed the air and growled, a friendly sound that went right through Hirad. For a moment, he thought he might cry.

  “I don't know if you can understand me, Thraun, but remember this,” he said, his voice thick, the rest of the world gone for a moment as he stared at the shapechanger. “You will always be Raven. And we will always remember you. Good luck, both now and in whatever faces you. May your soul find peace.” He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Ilkar. The hand squeezed but the elf said nothing.

  Thraun stepped forward, licked Hirad's face, turned and trotted away.

  Support, help, and encouragement are so important and thank you to all those who gave them so unstintingly. But there are some I should mention in person: Tara Falk who keeps me going; Peter Robinson, John Cross, Dave Mutton, and Dick Whichelow for being there any time; Paul Fawcett and Lisa Edney for tolerance and patience above and beyond the call of duty; William Holley who sent me my first piece of “fan mail”; and Simon Spanton whose sympathetic editing improves everything I write. It wouldn't be any fun without you all.

  I thank you all.

  JAMES BARCLAY is in his forties and lives in Teddington in the UK with his wife and son. He is a full-time writer. Visit him online at www.jamesbarclay.com