‘Ride with courage, ride with passion, ride for the Wesmen tribes. May the Spirit aid you.’ The last rang hollow in Tessaya’s mouth and he could imagine Arnoan’s expression had he heard those words.
‘My Lord.’ The riders turned their mounts and spurred them to the north-south trail where they split, three heading north for the College Cities, three south towards Blackthorne.
Tessaya turned and set about organising the fortification of Understone.
‘I have an idea,’ said Baron Blackthorne. Dawn had lit up the hillside on which his men had slept. Now its light probed the cave and overhang that had served as his command post. And with the light came a slow warming of the cold rock and a fresh, crisp scent that pervaded the old dampness of the cave. It would be a day clear of rain, something for which Blackthorne was very grateful.
Gresse turned to him. The older baron was still seated, the bruising of his concussion reaching down his forehead and temples, blackening one eye as if he wore a half mask. He looked pale beneath the discoloration, his eyes bloodshot and tired.
‘Will it stop this thudding in my head?’ he asked, his weakened voice, just slightly slurred, further evidence of his condition.
Blackthorne smiled. ‘No, I’m afraid not. But it could get us back into my town sooner.’
‘I could do with a proper bed,’ said Gresse. ‘I’m getting a little old for lying on rock floors.’
Baron Blackthorne scratched at his thick black beard and looked down at Gresse, feeling a surge of admiration for the older Baron he had quickly come to think of as his friend. Among the members of the Korina Trade Alliance, that shambolic body that did nothing but fuel the Baronial disputes it was supposed to mediate, he had been the only man who had seen the danger posed by the Wesmen. More than that, he had been the only man with the guts to speak out and the only man to believe in himself enough to ride to Balaia’s defence.
He had fought long and hard alongside his own and Blackthorne’s men, knowing that his lands were being plundered by short-sighted, greedy men like Baron Pontois. He had come within an ace of death as the Shamen’s black fire tore flesh from the bones of man and animal alike. His own horse had died beneath him, pitching him headlong into the rock that had been the cause of his injuries. But he was still alive and by the Gods, Blackthorne would see that he not only stayed that way but reclaimed his lands. All in the fullness of time.
‘We’re going to Gyernath, I take it?’ said Gresse.
‘Yes. The Wesmen will reach Blackthorne well ahead of us and we aren’t enough to lay siege or retake the town on our own. At Gyernath, we can brief the command and sail back to the Bay with reinforcements enough to cut their supply lines. And, with further detachments coming by foot and hoof, we could be back inside the walls of Blackthorne a week after arriving in Gyernath.’
‘Assuming the army at Gyernath agrees,’ said Gresse. Blackthorne looked at him askance.
‘My dear Gresse, I haven’t annexed the city for nothing,’ he said. ‘That army will do anything I say.’
‘I wish I could say I was surprised,’ said Gresse. ‘Gyernath has always given the appearance of being a free city.’
‘Oh it is,’ assured Blackthorne. ‘I have no authority within its borders.’
‘But . . .’ led Gresse, a smile creeping across his dark lips.
‘But travel isn’t necessarily secure . . . Gods, Gresse, don’t make me state the obvious.’
‘So, there are deals to be done.’
‘Of course. Like I said, I don’t run the council but I do have considerable sway in the trading community.’
‘I bloody knew it,’ said Gresse, respect overshadowing the irritation in his voice. ‘The KTA has consistently refused to censure your actions with Lord Arlen. It now becomes clear.’
‘My coffers are plentiful, if that’s what you mean. Or rather, they were. It depends a little on what the Wesmen have discovered.’ Blackthorne squatted down next to Gresse who shook his head, a smile playing about his lips.
‘I think I must be the only honest Baron left,’ he said.
Blackthorne chuckled and patted Gresse’s thigh with his left hand.
‘That class of Baron is extinct and, try as you might, you will never convince me you are actually its long-lost last member. My people have experienced your brand of honesty in Taranspike Pass on more than one occasion.’
‘It’s a treacherous place,’ said Gresse, his smile broadening.
‘Tell me you don’t levy any charge on passage to Korina via Taranspike.’
‘It’s not a blanket fee.’
‘Oh thank the Gods. Not everyone pays.’
‘It rather depends on allegiance and cargo.’ The older Baron shifted. ‘But don’t forget I provide security along the length of the pass.’
‘Pontois, no doubt, feels the burden of this non-blanket levy.’
‘His negotiations have left him a little short of a fair deal,’ agreed Gresse. ‘But if we ever get out of this mess, he’ll feel the burden of something far heavier than a few gold pennies.’
A soldier appeared at the overhang.
‘My Lord?’
‘Yes.’ Blackthorne picked himself to his feet and dusted himself down.
‘We are in readiness. We await your orders to march.’
‘Excellent,’ said Blackthorne. ‘Gresse, can you ride?’
‘I sit on my arse, not my head.’
The soldier stifled a laugh. Blackthorne shook his head.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ He turned to the soldier. ‘You can pass that round the fires this evening, can’t you? Meanwhile, we’re making for Gyernath. I need scouts ahead, tracking the Wesmen return to Blackthorne. We will take the south-east trail at Varhawk Point. We leave in an hour.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Blackthorne walked to the edge of the cave. The hillside was awash with action. He saw the soldier hurry to his superiors, relaying Blackthorne’s orders. Voices rolled across the open space. Men leapt to their feet, packs shouldered; horses were led to their saddling areas, the remaining mages gathered themselves. What little canvas individuals owned was struck and folded. Away to the right, a soldier struggled briefly to calm a skittish horse and, here and there, fires were stoked to make the last hour of the dying as comfortable as they could be. Those unable to make the journey wouldn’t be left alive, and the pyres had been built the evening before.
The Baron smiled, satisfied. Farmers, boys and regular garrison soldiers mixed in a single purpose, moving with impressive order, readying themselves for the march. The next weeks would seal the fate of the entire Blackthorne Barony. He needed them. If they could alert Gyernath, defend the bay beaches and regain the town, the south would have a strong foothold in their own lands that could be used to strike further against the Wesmen.
The smile left Blackthorne’s face. For all his talk and thought, Balaia was a mess. Understone and the pass were surely in Wesmen hands; the Colleges could fall despite the loss of Shamen magic; he, Baron Blackthorne, most powerful landowner in Eastern Balaia, was homeless, chasing the hillsides with a band of townsmen, farmers and wounded, tired soldiers.
It got worse. The Raven were trapped in the West; much of the fighting strength of the East was wrapped up in lone garrison defence or fragmented between bickering barons more concerned with maintaining obsolete land boundaries than saving their country; and to cap it all much of Korina, with its distrust of mages and their Communion, would know little or nothing about it. And although the Understone garrison would have despatched fast messengers to the east coast, they would not arrive for seven days, if at all. The hordes of the Wesmen could sweep all the way to the eastern oceans and right now, no one was capable of stopping them.
‘By the Gods, we’re in trouble.’
‘Well spotted,’ said Gresse from within the cave.
‘Not just us, I mean Balaia.’
‘Well spotted.’
‘What will we do?’ asked Bl
ackthorne, his confidence and belief suddenly deserting him, the enormity of the problem hitting him like an avalanche from the highest of his mountains’ peaks.
‘Everything we can, my friend. Everything we can,’ said Gresse. ‘Just take it one step at a time. Help me up, would you? I think we shouldn’t delay our travel to Gyernath any longer than is absolutely necessary.’
Chapter 6
The Raven didn’t ride until well into the following afternoon. Even then, Denser wasn’t truly up to it but time seemed to press. It was a warm day and the open spaces of the Torn Wastes attracted the heat. Riding would be uncomfortable without cloud to cover the sun.
The second measurement of the noon shade had been inconclusive, much as had been expected. Given allowances for inaccuracies, it wasn’t clear whether the rip had grown or, in fact, shrunk. The Unknown guessed it would be at least a week before believable evidence of the rate of increase of the rip’s area was available.
The four-College cavalry under General Darrick was partially split. Three mages, all Communion specialists, would remain hidden in Parve. With them would be fifteen sword cavalry, whose instructions included detailed examination and measurement of the dragon. It was this small company who would provide the information The Raven had to have: just how long would it be before the rip became too wide for the Brood Kaan to defend.
That left Darrick with around two hundred horsemen and eleven mages for attack, defence and Communion. Styliann’s ninety Protectors represented a formidable force and the Lord of the Mount’s magic was supremely powerful.
But, thought Hirad as he sat at the head of The Raven’s four warriors and three mages, he couldn’t help but feel they were just too few.
Even given that the fifty-odd thousand Wesmen would be concentrated in a few likely areas east and west of the Blackthorne Mountains, avoiding them would be difficult and they couldn’t hope to outfight or outrun a Wesmen army.
And there lay their biggest and most immediate problem. Having discounted traversing the sheer and treacherous range of mountains, they were left with attempting Understone Pass, which would be a suicidal folly, or heading either north to Triverne Inlet or south to the Bay of Gyernath. At either crossing, they would be forced to steal craft to reach their own lands.
The decision of which water to attempt was to be deferred until they had ridden perhaps two days down the eastern trail which led close by the Arch-Temple of the Wrethsires and directly to Understone Pass. Hirad suppressed a shudder. The Arch-Temple of the Wrethsires, where the blood of Protector, Raven and Wrethsire had been spilt but the last catalyst of Dawnthief found, was not a place the barbarian would ever wish to lay eyes on again.
As the column rode sedately out of Parve, Darrick at its head, The Raven behind the cavalry with the Protectors surrounding Styliann at the rear, Hirad shook his head.
‘We’re fooling ourselves,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’ said Ilkar who, with The Unknown, flanked him.
‘We need to make a quick decision of what it is we actually want. We’re unclear and it’ll cost us.’
‘I’m not with you,’ said the Julatsan.
‘For instance, do we, I mean The Raven, have to get to the Colleges? Can’t scholars there do the research for us?’
‘Hirad, we none of us really know precisely what we’re looking for,’ said Ilkar.
‘Yes we do. We have to find and read everything about Septern. Or rather, you mages do, since I can’t. And then, we have to link that to what Xetesk knows about dimension gates and Dragonene portals. Then we have to cast something that works.’
Ilkar stared at Hirad, his mouth open, his lips tugging up at the corners as he fought to avoid a smile.
‘It’s not like baking a shepherd’s pie, for God’s sake.’ Hirad’s expression was blank. ‘If we have to create a new spell to close that thing, we’re finished.’
‘What?’ Hirad turned in his saddle.
‘A spell of the nature you’re suggesting would take anywhere between one and five years to write, test and prove even assuming we had the raw Lore and understanding to do so.
‘What we’re hoping to find, and this has clearly passed you by, is some writing by Septern that will either log a spell designed to close a rip or tell us where to find one. At best, Xetesk’s DimensionConnect will provide background to help us understand more quickly.’
‘You have completely lost me,’ said Hirad. ‘Surely a rip is a rip. If you can open one, you can close one.’
‘No.’ The voice behind belonged to Erienne. She moved in between Hirad and a relieved-looking Ilkar. ‘We’ve now got three different types of rip. Four if you count the Dragonene portals.
‘We’ve got Septern’s bordered and stable rips which some of you have travelled, Xetesk’s DimensionConnect which is an unstable, embryonic portal magic, the Dragonene portals which we presume the dragons themselves control, and finally the unbounded rip created in the wake of Dawnthief.
‘They are all completely different constructs. To say you can close one because you can close another is like saying you can make shoes for horses because you can make them for people. All we’re sure is that, at some probably base Lore level, there is a connection between Septern’s bounded rips and the one in the sky. Only his work can really help us in the time we have. We don’t have time for a blacksmith’s apprenticeship.’
‘You don’t think we’ll find anything to answer this problem straight, do you?’ asked The Unknown.
‘No,’ said Erienne. ‘Whatever, we’ll be taking a big chance with what we eventually cast.’
‘That’s not good,’ said Hirad. ‘So what do we do if we can’t find anything in Septern’s writings?’
‘Die,’ said The Unknown. There was a pause.
‘Cheerful, aren’t you?’ said Hirad.
‘Right though,’ said The Unknown. ‘No use pretending.’
‘None of this changes the original point I was trying to make which was that three hundred of us are not going to sneak across Triverne Inlet or the Bay of Gyernath, undetected by Wesmen. We need to make a decision on whether that bothers us and if it does - and it should - what we’re going to do about it,’ said Hirad.
The Unknown stared ahead at the backs of the cavalry in front. He then turned and gazed at the Protectors behind him.
‘We need to talk more,’ he said. ‘And this isn’t the place. We’ll be overheard and I don’t think Styliann should overhear us. Hirad’s right. In the rush to leave and plan at Parve, we’ve forgotten ourselves. We’re The Raven. We make our own decisions. Privately.’ He nodded at the lead Protector who inclined his head very slightly, ebony mask betraying nothing. But, Hirad thought, something passed between them. Whatever it was, The Unknown kept it to himself.
The motley column crossed the Torn Wastes under a blazing sun. The signs of former Wesmen encampments littered the packed ground and harsh scrub. Blackened earth and charred wood, torn canvas, broken posts and tent pegs, lengths of rope and discarded offcuts of metal. And, here and there, the body of a Wesman who picked a fight with the wrong kinsman.
It was seven miles to the tree line and the welcoming canopy of leaf and branch over the marked trail that led from the Torn Wastes, north of the Wesmen Heartlands, through the rugged valleys and hills of Western Balaia, past the Wrethsires’ plundered temple and all the way to Understone Pass.
Behind them now, the rip hung in the sky, menacing the air and throwing its shadow over the city of the Wytch Lords. A shadow that would grow to envelop them all unless The Raven could find a way to close it.
The column rode unbroken for two hours, leaving Parve far behind. Hirad felt a growing release of tension as the buildings dwindled in the distance. And it was a release that just about made up for the discomfort of the ride. The horses sweated in the heat, attracting clouds of irritating, buzzing flies that plagued mount and rider alike. Forever waving a hand in front of his face, Hirad’s body was covered in a sheen of damp, beads ru
nning down the line of his back where they collected in his seat to chafe and rub.
The late afternoon brought mercifully cooler temperatures, a cover of cloud and a change in the terrain. Passing across the northern edge of a beautiful region of river valleys, lush green vegetation, great and ancient trees and fern-covered hillsides, the Eastern Balaians moved into altogether harsher lands.
The ground rose to a series of sharp peaks, littered with cracked rocks and strewn with boulders. Darrick ordered a dismount to save the horses’ legs and hooves, relieved men and mages stretching as they led their mounts over teacherous slabs of stone, half-buried under tough stands of long grass. To both sides, the ground fell away down steep scree slopes into wind-blasted clefts. Nowhere in sight was there any sign of habitation. Nevertheless, The Unknown was nervous.
‘We’re exposed here,’ he said.
‘But only, it seems, to the elements,’ replied Ilkar, drawing his cloak more firmly around his shoulders, the breeze whipping at cloth and grass, the heat changing quickly to chill.
‘If we’re spotted, we have no obvious cover,’ said The Unknown. ‘Thraun, what do you think?’ The shapechanger had spent some time at the head of the column earlier in the afternoon, advising Darrick’s scouts. He walked up to join The Unknown.
‘It’s not as bad as it looks although we might want to ride perhaps another quarter of a mile north if we can. The scouts have reported very little habitation up here. The land is useless for all but grazing goats. We’re unlikely to meet locals; the only risk is running into Wesmen warriors.
‘There are limited passable trails for horses and this is one of the better ones, believe it or not. I get no feeling that Wesmen will be a problem for a day or so. I’ve advised three of the scouts to travel to the fork above Terenetsa. That’s still more than two days’ ride from here for a fast scout. We’ll have a better picture in three days. Until then, the elves and me are the best chance we have of avoiding trouble.’
‘And you think we will?’ asked Ilkar, who had come to respect Thraun’s reading of land and scent.
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