Did the Wesman Lord really believe Styliann could get lost in a Pass with only one bore? And what good did he think forty would be against ninety of the most complete fighting machines in Balaia? The answer to the latter was, as it turned out, none at all.
Styliann yawned and looked behind him. As at the head of the column, twenty Wesmen were marching along the pass, the light from their lanterns decorating the dark slate walls with elaborate dancing shadows as they moved. Above him, a natural fissure ran up into the heart of the Blackthorne Mountains. Up ahead, however, the ceiling shelved down sharply to a height of less than fifteen feet and on one side the path fell away into a chasm that struck into the depths of hell.
The air was damp and cool and, here and there, water dripped, the escape of some long forgotten rainfall or buried tributary. The sounds of foot and hoof combined with the slap of scabbard on thigh to echo ever louder from the walls as they closed in. Hardly a word had been exchanged, none between Styliann and the Wesmen, and the warriors’ bravado had fast given way to uneasy whispers and ultimately an anxious silence. Understone Pass did that to people. The power overhead and the press to left and right stole confidence, hunched shoulders and hurried footsteps.
The column made good time and, an hour into the march, had a little more than three still to go. The barracks built into the western end of the pass were far behind and no one, east or west, could hear them.
Styliann smiled. It was time. He had no need of guides or lanterns or monitors. It would have been better for the guard had they stayed west. At least there they would have lived a little longer.
Considering his options, Styliann decided against depleting his mana stamina reserves however slightly. It was a pointless exercise. None of the Wesmen had bows - an omission none of them would live to regret. He leaned forward in his saddle, mouth close to the ear of Cil, now a favoured Protector, who marched in the centre of the defensive cordon that comprehensively shielded Styliann.
‘Destroy them,’ he whispered. Cil’s head moved fractionally in acknowledgement. Without breaking stride, he relayed the order to his brothers. Styliann smiled again as an instant’s tension crackled the air before the Wesmen were engulfed in a battle they didn’t realise had started until it was effectively over.
Eight wide, the front rank of Protectors swept axes from waist hitches and plunged them into the backs and necks of the oblivious Wesmen a few paces ahead. Behind, the thirty Protectors swivelled, axes to the ready and slammed into the wide-eyed rear guard.
The cacophony of shouts and cries that filled the air were calls to death, not to arms. In the front the Protectors surged on into the Wesmen guard, axes rising, falling and sweeping, blood smearing the pass, the sick thud of metal striking flesh loud in Styliann’s ears.
Struggling to turn and draw weapons, the Wesmen lost all shape, the shock of the assault defeating clear thought. Even as a few faced their attackers, they were cut down by the relentless accuracy and power of the Protectors whose every pace was for gain, whose every blow struck home and who never uttered a sound from behind their masks.
To the rear, at least there was resistance, however brief. Howling a rallying cry, one Wesman stood firm, others around him taking his lead. For a few moments, sparks lit the passage adding a flickering aspect to the lantern-lit nightmare and the clash of steel on steel rang out in the enclosed space. But the Protectors simply increased the pace and ferocity of their attack, moving to strike again almost before the last blow was complete and forcing the Wesmen back in a desperate and futile defence.
With blood slicking the floor and the dismembered and hideously scarred bodies of their kinsmen littering the ground, with the impassive masks of the dread force facing them down, the remaining Wesmen, perhaps ten altogether, turned and fled, screaming warnings that no one would hear as they went.
‘Catch them and kill them,’ said Styliann.
Half a dozen Protectors from each end picked their way deliberately over the carnage and ran east or west, their footfalls sounding impending death as they chased down their hapless quarry.
With the lanterns gone in the hands of fleeing Wesmen, or crushed underfoot, Styliann cast a LightGlobe and raised his eyebrows at the destruction he had ordered.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Any injuries?’
‘Minor cuts to two, my Lord,’ replied Cil. ‘Nothing more.’
‘Excellent,’ he repeated, nodding. ‘Now. Clear the bodies over the side. I will ride forward and you will stand by me.’
Again the almost imperceptible nod of the head. Immediately, Protectors stooped to drag the bodies from the passage to dump them in the chasm. Styliann urged on his nervous horse, Cil and five others flanking him, three either side. A few yards further on, he stopped and dismounted, dusted himself down and sat with his back to the north wall of the pass, the LightGlobe illuminating the rough-hewn rock.
Little impressed Styliann but Understone Pass certainly did. It represented a combination of extraordinary human and natural engineering. Built for profit and conquest, it had proved to be a millstone. He scratched his cheek below his left eye and shrugged. It was the way of so much meant for good to become evil.
‘And now we wait,’ he said to Cil. ‘Or rather, you do. I have work to do.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I have need of your soul companions.’
In the fading gentle light of late afternoon, Lord Tessaya took a walk around the boundaries of Understone, a worry beginning to nag at the back of his mind. It had been a day of extreme contrasts.
The message brought back by his bird had spoiled his mood but not his plans. The fast riders from Riasu at the eastern end of the pass had brought remarkable and unexpected news that could prove pivotal. Control of the Xeteskian Lord Mage was a prize worthy of the effort of containing his power. Never mind the dread force surrounding him. If he could be isolated, they could be nullified and eventually destroyed. There was no greater bargaining counter than Styliann. And he had volunteered to lend assistance in return for his speedy repatriation to his College. Fine. Tessaya was entirely happy to promise everything and give nothing. Particularly to a mage.
But something wasn’t right. His initial euphoria at Styliann’s naïveté, and the apparent over-confidence in his worth, had led to him dispatching the riders back immediately, bearing his written invitation. He had toyed with the idea of meeting Styliann with overwhelming force but had no desire to waste the lives of his men when, given a little patience, he could reach his goal without spilling a drop of Wesmen blood.
But now, with the day fast waning, Tessaya, whose tour of the reinforced stockade Darrick had built had been completed some time ago, was worried. And another circuit of the garrison town had done nothing to alleviate that worry.
By his calculations, Styliann should have been with him by now. Indeed, should have been so an hour before. And the men he had sent in to meet and replace Riasu’s guard had not returned as they had been instructed to if the meet was missed.
Admittedly, there were a number of good reasons for any delay. A horse throwing a shoe, lack of organisation at the western end, a longer than expected rest break, his guards deciding to press on through the pass rather than report, Styliann causing difficulties with regard to march conditions, Styliann ensuring the deal he thought he had with Tessaya was watertight, Styliann making extra demands late in the day. Styliann.
Tessaya stopped walking and sat on a flat rock looking south over Understone. The setting sun washed a beautiful pale red light over the town, firing the light cloud cover with anger and shooting its beams to the earth. From his right, the softened sound of hammer and saw drifted on the light breeze. Below and to his left, the door to one of the prison barracks opened and a line of bowed and defeated easterners trudged away for evening exercise, flanked by axe-carrying guards.
Listening to the breeze, he could pick out the sound of voices from all corners of the town, talking, ordering, arguing. In three days the stockade, which already controlled the main east-we
st trail, would encircle Understone. Then he could begin work on the pass defences, so far neglected.
The small town had sprawled like oil over water in the wake of the Wesmen’s occupation. Gazing across the shallow dip in which Understone’s original buildings lay, Tessaya was greeted by the grey canvas that covered every inch of the gentle southward slope and the plateau to which it led. Standards from a dozen tribes and a hundred minor noble families stood proud above the massed semicircles of tents, each standing around a firepit.
For himself, he had chosen lodging in the inn with his advisors, including Arnoan whom he wished to keep a close eye on. Few of his family were in Understone. His sons fought with Senedai in the north. His brothers were long since dead at the hands of Xetesk’s mages.
He scowled and stood up, straightening his jacket. Styliann. He strode briskly to the western end of the town.
‘I need a scout,’ he demanded of the duty watch Captain.
‘My Lord.’ The brown-bearded Captain hollered a name, the sound booming from the nearby buildings. A man came running from a working party digging a channel for a set of stakes outside the stockade. ‘Kessarin, my Lord.’
Tessaya nodded and turned to the athletically built Wesman who wore pale brown leggings, a shirt and lightweight boots and carried a small single-bladed axe in his belt. He was young and clean-cut, a product of a lesser noble village, no doubt.
‘Can you run?’ asked Tessaya.
‘Yes, my Lord.’ Kessarin nodded vigorously, fear of Tessaya overcome by his eagerness to please.
‘Then go into the pass. Take a hooded lantern but use it sparingly. I need you to find the fools I sent in this afternoon. Do not make contact with anyone. Report directly back to me on your return.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Go now.’ Tessaya looked towards the black maw of the pass blending into the deepening shadows. He was loath to stand against Styliann and his dread force but dawn’s first light would force his hand. Kessarin needed to return quickly and the thought that he might not scared Tessaya more than it should.
Styliann, with his close guard around him, relaxed and formed the mana shape for a Communion he would either enjoy immensely or curse forever. The shape, narrow and twisted like a plaited deep blue rope, spiralled away through the rock of the Blackthorne Mountains, seeking one particular mind in Xetesk, a mind which, while suddenly powerful, would be unable to resist Styliann’s casting pressure.
The Communion bridged the divide to Xetesk in an instant, a little smile playing around Styliann’s lips as the spell drifted over the resting minds of hundreds of mages inside the College. They appeared like small ripples in an otherwise still pond, a map of minds that, with care, the skilled and knowledgeable could read.
Styliann searched the random thoughts of sleep for one who would be active, spiking the ripples like splashes from falling rain. He was not hard to find. A man whose rise to power had been respectably swift, his opportunity grasped with both hands on the back of a spectacular spell success and, critically, the absence of the incumbent Lord of the Mount.
Styliann admired the courage of the man but he hated the humiliation and was enraged by the weakness of his own circle. When his rightful position was regained, he would need answers to a great many questions.
The Communion arrowed in, jerking the slumbering mage to a sudden and intensely uncomfortable wakefulness. A token resistance was broken almost immediately.
‘My apologies for the lateness of the hour. My Lord.’ Styliann’s mind-voice was laden with bile.
‘St-Styliann?’ gasped the befuddled mage.
‘Yes, Dystran, Styliann. And close enough to sweep away your poorly formed shield. You should train harder in self-preservation. It might come in useful.’ Styliann had never been forced to take a Communion against his will.
‘Where are you?’ Dystran was fully awake now.
Styliann could feel the anxiety and imagined him fighting to sit upright to look about him, though the Communion held him prone.
‘No need to WardLock your doors,’ said Styliann, voice mocking. ‘Not yet.’
‘What do you want?’ asked the new Lord of the Mount.
‘Apart from the obvious? A little assistance to ensure our inevitable meeting is more amicable than it is likely to be at present.’
‘You’re coming back?’
‘Xetesk is my home,’ Styliann said sharply, comforted by the knowledge that Dystran and his team had given little thought to the possible consequences of their usurpation.
There was a pause. Styliann could feel Dystran’s thoughts roiling in his uneasy mind. How he must wish his advisers could help him now.
‘What is it you want?’ he asked again.
‘Muscle,’ said Styliann. ‘A lot of muscle. To leave Xetesk immediately and head south towards Understone. I will meet them en route.’
‘You’re talking about Protectors?’ Dystran’s thought was disbelieving.
‘Naturally,’ replied Styliann. ‘Calling the Protector army is a right of the Lord of the Mount.’
‘But you are not the Lord of the Mount,’ Dystran’s mind-voice sneered. ‘I am.’
Styliann chuckled. At least the man had some backbone if no conception of what he had done. Following his success with the DimensionConnect, he had been correctly made a Master. But his ill-advised leap to ultimate power would suit no one but his advisers who were no doubt using him as a stalking-horse to gauge College mood and opinion. It was a shame that he couldn’t see it but then they never did. Styliann’s stalking-horse hadn’t.
‘But you will grant me the Protector army nonetheless,’ said Styliann, his tone full of certainty. ‘Perhaps then we can sort out the Mount sensibly when I return.’
‘And if I don’t grant them, perhaps you will not return. Then the situation will have sorted itself out.’
‘Fool.’ Styliann spiked the thought, feeling Dystran’s mind recoil. ‘Do you really think that I have remained Lord for so long just to let an upstart mage like you take my Tower?’ He breathed deep to calm himself. There was something he needed to know. ‘You have been studying the texts of the Stewardship, no doubt?’
‘When there has been time,’ said Dystran.
‘Yes. The pressures are great, are they not?’
Dystran relaxed, Styliann could feel it. ‘Yes. I hope we can discuss them in a civilised manner.’
‘Hmm.’ Styliann paused. ‘You have rescinded the Act of Giving and appropriated it yourself, I trust?’ he asked.
‘The Act of . . . ? No, that text is not known to me.’
‘Ah.’ Styliann felt a surge of pleasure and triumph. ‘And nor, apparently, to your ill-chosen advisers. But let me assure you that you will all feel its effects.’ Styliann terminated the Communion abruptly, shaking off the momentary disorientation.
Not rescinding the Act of Giving was an unsurprising error. Normally, there was no living former Lord from whom to remove the Act and the discovery of its power could be discovered at leisure. Normally.
Styliann smiled and tuned his mind to summon the entire Protector army as was, unfortunately for Dystran, still his right.
Kessarin was a proud man. Selected by his Captain and trusted by his Lord with a task of importance and secrecy. One that would end with a report direct to Tessaya himself.
He ran into the pass with enough oil in the small lantern for a good four hours. The wick was trimmed low and the shutter was clipped across to hide all but the merest chink of light and allow sufficient ventilation. Using the failing light of the sun which shone directly along his path, he moved quickly into the first section of the pass which angled very slightly downwards.
His padded leather shoes made little sound, his small axe was strapped hard to his back and his hands were free to trace the outline of the pass, areas of which he could navigate by touch alone - as any good Paleon scout could. Silence was paramount. Lord Tessaya wanted the guard found without their knowing it, and that was
exactly what he would do.
Kessarin smirked as he imagined the march, if it could be termed such, of the guard dispatched into the pass five hours previously. Obviously, there had been some delay in the Xeteskian reaching them but they should have been closing in on the western end of the pass by now, if not actually sitting with Riasu.
Kessarin somehow doubted they had travelled that far. Under the leadership of the disagreeable Pelassar, he expected to find them no further than half an hour in, at their stated meeting point. This was despite very specific instructions to move into the centre of the pass if it proved necessary. In choosing Pelassar to lead the relief guard, Tessaya had made, in Kessarin’s estimation, his only mistake so far. Hardly a grave error and Kessarin would be only too pleased to report back on Pelassar’s slovenly conduct and see him whipped or strung. Either would do fine.
Pelassar was nowhere in evidence at the point where Kessarin had expected him and his thirty men to be. The scout had anticipated hearing the sounds of bone dice clacking off the stone floor, of rough laughter echoing down the pass, and the glow of lanterns and torches illuminating the way unnecessarily for a hundred yards or more.
But there had been no need to slow his pace or cloak his lantern. Surprisingly, Pelassar had moved on. The scout raised his eyebrows and did the same.
Kessarin was a fit man and his pace ate up the pass. At a roughly estimated hour in, his caution slowed him to a fast walk. His lantern, hooded all the way, was pared to a thin strip of light which he shone either at the ground directly in front of him or the wall either side, never directly ahead.
His breathing was controlled and his ears tuned to hear the merest sound but all he picked up was the dripping of water somewhere far away. On it went for perhaps another half an hour, the silence supreme, the light nowhere and no sign at all of Pelassar and his men. It was then that he smelt the blood. Not a strong scent but there all the same, drifting on the breath of a breeze that meandered along the pass.
The Raven Collection Page 72