Shadowheart lotr-2

by James Barclay

He coughed, the pain wracking his body. On his lap, his familiar raised its head weakly and settied down again, looking nothing more than a sick cat.

  'You need to rest,' said Dystran.

  Ranyl chuckled. 'I will have an eternity to do that, young pup. An eternity that is very soon to begin.'

  North and west, the people poured out of Julatsa. The meetings across the city had been brief and harsh. The mayor had played his cards well, barring mages from the gatherings, determined to ensure that the people heard the unexpurgated truth, as he put it. Anyone who Pheone had managed to speak to following the meetings, which had gone on well into the night, reported nothing short of rabble-rousing.

  The result had been angry but directionless demonstrations outside the college, a few threats levelled at the mages within for the trouble they had brought to the city and now this exodus. Early guesswork and a close watch on those leaving suggested that the charge, for such it appeared when it gathered momentum in the early afternoon, had been led by those who had only come to Julatsa for shelter.

  The ranks had been swelled by women and children chaperoned by a sizeable number of armed men, often on horseback. It was a somewhat different story among businessmen, who could see their already precarious livelihoods collapsing around their ears if they left. But while many of these people determined to stay in the city, keeping open areas like markets, bakers and blacksmiths, they were not openly declaring their support for the college.

  Julatsa, they had said, is my home and I will protect it and my business. If I help the college as a by-product, so be it. Hardly the vote of confidence Pheone had been hoping for. To be fair, friends had come to the college to pledge their support but they were so few that Pheone had considered sending them away for their own safety. Instead, she had welcomed them in and put them to work.

  Despite the ever-present risk of mana failure, Pheone watched the ordered column of Julatsans leaving the northern border of the city from under ShadowWings. The effort of structuring and maintaining the simple casting told her all she needed to know about the depths of trouble in which Julatsan mana found itself but she was determined that she would not be scared out of using it. Indeed, if Geren was completely right, using magic helped maintain the Heart.

  A determined movement from below caught her eye. Someone was waving up at her. She dipped lower and smiled sadly. Another friend deserting the city. The woman was beckoning her down and she obliged, pulling up to land just outside the last house before the empty north route guard tower. She heard muttering behind her at her arrival but no one spoke up.

  'Hello Maran,' she said. 'Sorry to see you're leaving.'

  'I'm sorry too,' said Maran. Her daughter, Maranie was walking along hand-in-hand beside her, the five-year-old sensing only the excitement, not the uncertainty. 'But I can't let her see what might come.'

  'I do understand,' said Pheone. 'You are why I spoke to the council. You should be assured of your safety. It's what everyone in the college wants.'

  'The Mayor didn't speak too kindly of you. None of you but you in particular,' said Maran.

  'I'm sure he didn't.'

  'You know, most of us don't believe much of what he said.'

  'And what did he say?'

  Maran paused before speaking. 'That you courted war and expected us to defend you. That you felt above every other citizen, assuming yourselves rulers of the city. He was quite forceful about who was really in charge.'

  'It's not something I've ever disputed,' said Pheone. 'We only ever wanted to work together to make the city great again.'

  'He said you had become a cancer that should be excised.'

  That stopped Pheone in her tracks for a moment. 'This is our city too,' she said. 'Why are you turning against us?'

  'We're not. Well, I'm not. I just have to think of Maranie. I can't take the chance.'

  Pheone had heard enough. The Mayor had turned full face against them, that was clear. His words of passivity had turned to active hostility and she wondered what exactly he would say to the Xeteskians if he managed to talk to them.

  ‘Ihave to get back,' she said. 'Good luck.'

  The two women kissed cheeks. 'I'll see you when I get back.'

  Pheone felt a sudden rush as of cold water across her body. She stumbled suddenly and gasped a breath, ShadowWings disappearing, leaving a pain in her back.

  'We're dying and you're running,' she said, the shock of the mana failure forcing unbidden anger into her voice.

  'I'm not-'

  'I wonder what city it is you will come back to, Maran. Perhaps you shouldn't come back at all.'

  She turned and walked back into the city, the void where her connection with the mana should have been tearing at her soul.

  The desperation of the day before had made way for an extraordinary sense of optimism. It had no foundation. The allied forces were largely destroyed and the survivors only now banding together, with a force probably six times their complete size only a couple of hours behind them and closing, but still hopes were raised.

  The only factor Blackthorne could attribute it to was the fact that, the more bands of twos, threes and fours he brought together, the more men who had thought all was lost saw that it was not quite as bad as they had believed. All animosity between Lystern and Dor-dover had disappeared. Strangers were greeted like long-lost brothers.

  But in the face of this lightening of mood, Blackthorne was reminded of their situation all too often. His had been a simple yet challenging brief from Izack, one that he had been happy to accept from the Lysternan commander, who had demonstrated himself an exceptionally brave man.

  Riding with the eight members of his guard who had survived the BlueStorm, he had undertaken to be the link between the fleeing groups of allied soldiers and mages, using the pace of his horses to cover the ground and his powers of persuasion to make those he found change direction in order to unite.

  But for every three groups he found, from two terrified men clinging together, to one of a dozen and more with guard mages, he found another which had not escaped familiar, assassin or mage defender. He'd seen bodies scattered across a clearing; men who had died back to back, their desperate defence not enough; and the eyes of the dead open to the sky. What terrors they must have seen. The situation had worried him enough that he had ridden alone the previous night to speak to Izack. As a direct result, the familiar traps had been laid, catching some and scaring off many more.

  Now though, Blackthorne was tired. He hadn't slept since before the siege had been shattered. He'd changed horses twice and the one beneath him was showing reluctance. Making instant decision, he dismounted and led the horse by the reins, its expression pathetically grateful.

  He was walking with the united shards of the allied force. He had found forty-seven soldiers and six mages. Paltry. Yet it was something. His men had heard of another four groups west or slightly ahead and were trying to round them up now. To keep up the spirits of these men and the pace of the walk, which pushed many beyond their normal limits, he dropped his baronial air.

  He moved among them, cajoling and joking, asking after their health and promising plenty he could never deliver. And though it kept them going, it made his heart heavy. Mentally and physically, these men were finished. It was three days' walk to Julatsa. And even if he got them there, what good would they be to the defence?

  It was a question with a simple answer and that meant he had to change his plan. He had considered his options for an hour while they marched, mercifully without incident as they had been doing the entire day, when he heard a rider approaching. Natural consternation quickly gave way to relief when the men recognised the man in the saddle.

  He cantered up to Blackthorne, dismounted and walked beside the Baron.

  'My Lord,' he said.

  'Hello, Luke,' he said. 'So, what news do you bring me from Izack?'

  'Good news,' said Luke, the orphaned farmer's son who had become one of Blackthorne's most valuable men after the
ir chance meeting during the Wesmen wars that seemed an age ago. 'Izack raided the Xeteskian camp at dawn as planned. Fired tents, killed some, broke wagons and got out losing one man and two injured.'

  'Did you hear that lads?' called Blackthorne. 'Izack has struck another blow at the Xeteskians. A successful one!' There was a cheer.

  'He's minding our backs, let's pray he comes through.' He dropped his voice. 'How far away are the enemy?'

  He glanced back over his shoulder. The terrain was the same from here to Julatsa. Undulating and studded with low peaks, sharp valleys and woodland, much of it broken down. A clever enemy could get very close without being seen. Blackthorne hadn't got rear guards. No one wanted to be alone out there just yet.

  Luke shrugged. 'Marching, probably three hours, but he's pushed his cavalry ahead this morning to keep Izack away. If they pushed hard and beat Izack in the gallop, they could be on us in less than an hour.'

  'Hmm,' said Blackthorne. 'Still, it leaves their flanks exposed. Someone ought to get word to the elves about that.'

  'Someone already has.' Luke smiled. 'He is smart, isn't he?'

  'Izack? Yes, very. Schooled by the best of course.'

  'You, my Lord?' There was a twinkle in Luke's eyes.

  Blackthorne laughed. 'You'll go far, young man,' he said. 'Keep that wit, you'll need it.'

  'Yes, my Lord.'

  'Now, then, I have something more to ask of you,' said Blackthorne. ‘Ineed you to go back to Izack. Ask him his opinion of the pace of the enemy march and its direction. Will it deviate? So far, I suspect they will walk in our footprints.'

  'Might I ask why, Baron?'

  'These men need rest. If they march into Julatsa three hours ahead of Xetesk, they will get none and be slaughtered because of it. Chandyr's men are sleeping at night. Mine are not. I want a place to hide away from the route. Somewhere secure enough we can hold out against familiars and assassins if it comes to it. I don't think Chandyr will change course to confront us, we are not enough of a threat for that.

  'I'd rather lead these men on a rear assault when the battle is already joined than see them pointlessly cut to pieces because they are too tired to cast or hold their blades steady. Take that to Izack, find out his views. He gives the orders and I will follow them but be firm in expressing my recommendation. Do you understand? Strike that, I know you do. Are you fit to ride?'

  'Yes, my Lord.'

  'Good. Then go when you're ready. The sooner the better. I'd like an answer before sundown.'

  Lord Tessaya stood with Lord Riasu near the entrance to Under-stone Pass. It was a place in which he had stood once before. That time, he had been directing the Wesmen armies and his Shamen, backed by Wytch Lord magic, as they attacked and destroyed the four-college force that had taken the western end of the Pass. It had been a day of death and respect, his enemies never turning and running to the safety of the dark but standing to fight and die to a man. He did not have such respect today for the rulers of the four colleges who let themselves be divided by a hunger for power.

  Today, he stood and watched the Wesmen assemble once more. Riasu, his lands encompassing the Pass entrance, had his tribesmen already assembled by the time Tessaya and the Paleon arrived. Tents were pitched in traditional order, standards and banners hung and tribal distance respected. Almost two thousand were camped, representing over half the force he expected though he hoped to be surprised.

  He had the best men from a further twenty tribes coming, those tiiat could muster above fifty men. The others, tribes who had suffered hard at the hands of the east and the mana-driven storms, would not march. Never again would he allow any tribe to risk disappearing altogether. Enough had to remain to ensure survival.

  Tessaya looked forward to seeing the banners of his people arrive. The Heystron, the Liandon, Revion and Taranon, great names in the warrior history of the Wesmen. All had lost their commanders in the last wars, all sought vengeance.

  He breathed in the spring air, felt its warmth in his chest and nodded his head.

  'Can you feel it, Riasu?' he asked.

  ‘Ibelieve I can, my Lord Tessaya. I believe I can.'

  'There is a change in the very air. The shadows lengthen over the rule of the colleges. Never before have we genuinely had such an opportunity. Never. Think, Riasu, how we trusted in overwhelming numbers and assumed it would be enough. We took Julatsa but the cost was so high. Now, mage numbers are low and the colleges take more from the game every day, strengthening our hand if they but knew it.' He nodded again. 'We must not fail.'

  'We won't, my Lord,' said Riasu. 'Every man down there can feel it too.'

  He gestured at the sprawl of tents. Smoke rose from a hundred fires and the noise of tribal life was punctuated by the menacing barks and snarls of Destrana wardogs. The plain would soon be full. And then it would be time.

  'How long before the Taranon arrive?'

  Every Lord who had responded to his summons had also responded to the call to arms and waited for the word to march east. The Shamen had passed on the message through the Spirits who watched over them, and had bade them be victorious.

  ‘Iam told it will be two days,' said Riasu.

  'Then on the dawn following their arrival, we shall go,' said Tessaya.

  There was a surge of men towards the southern edge of the camp. Cheering and songs broke out. Away in the distance, he could pick out standards fluttering on their long poles. The Liandon were come and would be sung in all the way. The sound raised Tessaya's heart and he felt his blood rushing through his veins, invigorating him. He was old to be leading men to battle but he felt like he had just crossed the threshold from childhood.

  He led Riasu from the rise and began to run towards the camp. If they were fast enough, they would be in time to join the songs and greet their brothers to the gathering.

  Chapter 36

  Dusk was beginning to take hold on the second day of the run north to Julatsa but Auum had a different target, and his Tai was complete once again. He ran with an extra spring, Duele and Evunn flanking him, the shadows that gave him every confidence that he needed. Tual had smiled on them, Yniss had too and Evunn had awoken as Sian had said, none the worse physically but with hazy memories. When time was once again with them, they would tell him the story he had missed.

  They had parted from the main elven group at midday, leaving Rebraal in sole charge, and heading on a long curved route that took them well away from any enemy scouts. They had not rested until they had reached the rear of the Xeteskian column. ClawBound had been with them all the way, keeping them from harm and completing the picture of what they faced. Now, they walked with two pairs a mile adrift of the nearest rear guard or scout, safe in the knowledge that those familiars and assassins that remained were concentrated ahead. Some of the latter had tried to get into the elven camp the night before and their remains had been left just beyond the forward perimeter of the Xeteskian camp before dawn.

  Auum had no feelings for these people. He knew the ClawBound wanted revenge for the deaths among their number and while he understood the reaction, it was not the way of the TaiGethen. Nor of the Al-Arynaar. But the ClawBound were a breed apart and one who channelled their anger without compromising themselves. It was the bond the pairs shared that kept them clear and decisive. For Auum, it was merely necessary to reduce Xeteskian numbers as far as possible to aid the Al-Arynaar.

  Ahead and to their left and right, the pairs walked, their quick pace forcing the Tai cell to trot to keep up. None of them needed a tracker to follow the Xeteskians. Even a blind human could follow the trail left by cartwheel, foot and hoof. Debris littered the path too, just one more example of their casual disregard for the land, their misunderstanding of what their Gods had given them. A broken buckle, a square of cloth, a chipped and rusting dagger. He'd seen so much that it failed to surprise him any more.

  They closed steadily and stealthily on the rear guards, ten men in pairs, spread across an arc a half mile wide. Cla
wBound had reported that this circle existed all around the marching column now the cavalry were marauding ahead. It was a reasonable strategy, Auum supposed, but he was no expert on military movement. He didn't need to be. All he knew was that those detached from the main group without the skills to sense the threat were vulnerable.

  Like the lame deer in the herd. Unprotected. Easy meat.

  He brought the cell to a halt. Ahead of them, a river the enemy column should just have crossed, wove through low-lying marshy land between a series of gentle rises scattered with heavy brush, bracken and woodland. They had waited for the sun to decline and now the terrain was perfect.

  Auum led them in a prayer to Yniss to watch over them, and to Tual, the God the ClawBound most revered, to guide them.

  'There can be no sound,' he said. 'Our jaqrui pouches remain closed, the Claws must restrain their voices. We are few. We can inflict damage to help our brother Al~Arynaar and repay the debt owed to the ClawBound but we must not be heard. There is nowhere for us to run from their mages and their familiars.

  'We have our targets. We move.'

  The ClawBound pairs made no gesture to suggest that they had heard or agreed. They were still for a moment, and then ran away, one pair directly ahead, the other to the right, leaving the Tai cell to take the left flank.

  'Care with your bows,' said Auum. 'Only if you are certain of a clean kill.'

  He drew his twin short swords and sped away through thigh-high grass towards a bracken-covered mound, while Duele and Evunn, bows prepared, moved five yards left and right and ten behind.

  Auum sensed every footstep he made, minimising the pressure, feet finding sure hold. The drying ground still held treachery for the unwary but the elf, born to the rainforest, would rely on it as he would solid rock. He breasted the bracken, easy movements at one with the direction of growth, stems eased aside rather than crushed underfoot. Beyond the mound, the land fell away sharply to a muddy tributary. He sized it up as he approached, the fast failing light no barrier, finding the solid ground, footfalls not sounding.