Darrick sat at the head of his whooping, cheering cavalry, surveying the damage he had wrought. Just like old times, he thought.
He hadn’t lost a man.
They waited for him, three of them, downwind but not closed of mind. They had thought to surprise him but their thoughts were crystal to the Great Kaan.
He had been flying steadily in the upper strata, the winds against him as he returned to Teras. The Naik had apparently been advised of his journey and from the right and below, he felt them coming before their challenges to battle rang out in the cold sky.
Sha-Kaan turned quickly and dived on the trio, using his altitude advantage to give him speed and angle. The Naik saw him coming and split left, right and down in an attempt to confuse but he had seen too many battles and his eyes were already fixed on his target. The Naik was small, perhaps little more than fifty feet in length, less than half Sha-Kaan’s size, but used his body badly.
As Sha-Kaan closed, he saw the attitude of the enemy’s wings was all wrong, body shape at odds with the direction of his travel and legs splayed. The Naik was either a clumsy flier or . . . Sha-Kaan curved away from his dive and angled back up, a breath of flame scorched the air just under his belly, a second missed by a wingspan. Roaring their disappointment, the Naik who had sprung the trap passed each other beneath him and he flipped on his back into a steep dive after the decoy who had not yet regained his shape.
Plunging through the line of the two attacking Naik, Sha-Kaan opened his mouth and poured flame down and to his left, searing the flank and wing of the struggling Naik. The beast shivered away, howling pain, a tear evident in its right wing, wind whistling through the rent in the membrane and damaged flank scales bubbling.
Not waiting for the response, Sha-Kaan furled his wings briefly, barrel-rolled away, then arced steeply right and up, head looking behind him. He could only see two of the Naik.
He rolled in the air again but a fraction too late. His snapshot all round vision picked out the third attacker bearing down from above, aiming for his exposed underbelly as he rolled. Knowing he couldn’t hope to avoid the flame, he spun half circle, collected his wings and waited for the pain, his momentum carrying him on up. The gout caught him high on his shoulder and seared low across his neck. He felt scales tear and skin contract, knew he had lost some movement but refused to yield his position, knowing where the Naik would complete his move.
With the breeze of the enemy’s passing very near him, he opened his armoured outer eyelids, deployed his wings and snaked his neck down his body, ignoring the yank of pain to clamp his jaws on the Naik wing. The younger dragon had great strength and threatened to break away but Sha-Kaan’s balance was born of long years of fighting and his opposite pull tore muscle and membrane. He breathed fire over the ruined wing and let the crippled dragon take the long spiralling drop to its death.
Roaring in pain and triumph, Sha-Kaan beat his wings wide. In front of him, the undamaged Naik hovered, looking for a point of attack. At right angles the injured but very mobile second enemy circled tightly.
For a time, they stood off but Sha-Kaan knew what was coming. At a signal, the dragons flew, one up, one down, before angling in to the attack. It was a well-worn manoeuvre and exposed their lack of real fight experience.
Armour was for a purpose, and in a pincer attack, more dragons died forgetting this simple fact that anything else. Sha-Kaan had no intention of trying to dodge both dragons. Accepting the fact of new pain but able to minimise its damage, he reverse-beat his wings to slow his forward movement, furled them, lay his neck along his belly and dropped straight down.
Above him, the Naik adjusted quickly, steepening the angle of his dive and sending flame rushing over Sha-Kaan’s back. Below him, though, the injured dragon failed to react and Sha-Kaan, lucky for the first time in the battle, struck the enemy’s body, his tail a whip for the unwary, lashing around the Naik’s neck where it established a choking grip.
A strangled gasp of flame coughed from the enemy’s mouth as he fought for breath but Sha-Kaan was in total control. Continuing his plummet, he dragged the young Naik off-balance, stretched his neck and beat fire into its face from close range. He dropped the corpse and dived away, wings spread, neck and back stiffening as the damaged muscle below the scales protested. He roared again but this time the enemy didn’t respond.
Seeing the battle lost, the one remaining Naik turned and fled, Sha-Kaan watching him dwindle in the lower cloud, a dark shape against the pale background. He didn’t follow, choosing instead to drive back into the heights where he flew, more slowly now, back to Teras, his Broodlands and, most importantly, the welcome dimensional streams of the Melde Hall.
The Raven didn’t move on until mid-afternoon. Hirad’s contact with Sha-Kaan had left him temporarily fatigued but extremely hungry. Thraun and Will had disappeared into the brush, returning impossibly quickly with a quartet of rabbits and a brace of wood pigeon. These, Will prepared and cooked on the stove’s hot plate, bulking the small animals with grain from The Unknown’s pack, root vegetables from the river’s edge and a fresh herb preparation.
It all made a decent stew but Hirad found himself missing the hunk of bread he’d normally enjoy it with. He also missed the ale and wine.
‘It’s a depressingly long time since I’ve had a drink,’ he said.
‘Yes, my profits are surely in tatters because of your absence from my inn,’ said The Unknown. Hirad looked at him, hoping this was an attempt at humour but seeing it was not. They all missed Korina and The Unknown certainly missed The Rookery, the bar he part-owned with Tomas, the resident innkeeper. And at this precise moment, Hirad would have given anything at all to have his feet up in front of the fire in the back room, a goblet of wine at his hand, a plate of meat and cheese in his lap.
But memories of The Rookery were tinged with sadness. The last time The Raven had been there, Hirad’s oldest friend, Sirendor Larn, had been murdered. The fact that he had given his life to save Denser was scant comfort despite the Dark Mage’s importance to the future of Balaia.
As he chewed a slightly gristly piece of rabbit, Hirad thought back to their fateful meeting with Denser in the grounds of Taranspike Castle and all to which it had led. So many had died, so much had been achieved and yet, as he sat hidden by the banks of the River Tri, Hirad felt their insignificance. The Raven were just seven people, and himself, The Unknown and Ilkar apart, not even particularly experienced people. But to them lay the task of closing the rip before the Balaian sky was flooded by dragons.
In normal days, it would have been difficult to persuade the doubters of the necessity of their task and their demands for open house in at least two College libraries. Now, with the invading armies of the Wesmen swarming all over the mage lands, it was a task rendered practically impossible. The Wesmen certainly wouldn’t believe them and that was no surprise. Despite the fact that they were as much at risk as any Balaian, why should they believe the stories of a band of mercenaries, albeit famous ones? No one could see the rip yet. When they could, it would probably be too late. The tale was just too far-fetched and even Darrick and Styliann’s words wouldn’t add the necessary weight.
So The Raven were left having to hide the reasons for their actions from all they encountered simply because they hadn’t the time or the patience to make people believe them. In fact, as far as Hirad could make out, the only people who would take their story seriously, besides those Styliann could convert should he choose to do so, were the Dragonene mages. But that sect was so secretive that their ear, sympathetic or otherwise, was of limited use. Not one among them would reveal themselves as Dragonene to the wider mage population, let alone to non-mages.
Hirad spat out the gristle. There was no doubting the injustice of their position but mulling on it solved nothing. The stew pot was empty and The Raven had all but finished the meal.
‘It’s time we were moving,’ said Hirad. ‘Will, cool the stove please. Unknown? A route if you wo
uld be so kind. Anybody needing to relieve themselves, now is the time. We aren’t stopping till nightfall.’
Denser grumbled, hauled himself to his feet and crackled away towards the water’s edge.
‘Cheerful soul, isn’t he?’ said Ilkar.
‘Hmm. Just like his old self, unfortunately,’ replied Hirad. ‘Erienne, are you sure you want to hang around with him when you’re old and grey?’
Erienne smiled. ‘Who says I’ll go grey? At this moment, he’s a little hard to love but, well, you know . . .’ Hirad nodded. ‘But I’ll tell you something,’ she continued. ‘You could help by being a little more tactful. His fuse is short.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said Hirad.
‘Him, tactful?’ Ilkar jerked a thumb in Hirad’s direction. ‘You might just as well ask Thraun to have slightly shorter fangs. It’s not going to happen.’
‘Thanks for your support, Ilkar,’ said Hirad. He turned his back on the mage and grinned over at The Unknown who didn’t respond in kind. ‘Which way, Big Man?’
The Unknown Warrior moved fluidly to his feet and helped Will kick dirt over the stove.
‘I could be flippant and say “east” but no one would laugh,’ he said. ‘If we’ve decided Triverne Lake isn’t an option, that leaves us with few alternatives. My view is that we should drive straight for Julatsa. Given Denser’s announcement of our dwindling time, we have to chance running into some Wesmen. Now the only reason I think that’s a risk worth taking is that Thraun will almost certainly give us ample warning. We should strike away from the river now and head for the city. The ground is flattish and the cover most of the time is adequate.’
‘Whatever you say,’ said Hirad. Denser came back into the small clearing. ‘Bowels empty?’
‘Yes, thank you, Hirad,’ he replied somewhat testily.
‘Let’s go.’ The barbarian gestured for The Unknown to show them the way. Thraun loped off on his own towards the river. Will, the stove tied into its leather, shouldered the burden for the time being and brought up the rear behind the trio of mages.
It was, Hirad thought, a long way to Julatsa on foot and he found himself hoping for an encounter with some unwary Wesmen.
Thraun lapped at the cool water of the slow-flowing river, feeling the liquid chill his throat as it rushed to his belly. His mind was confused but he didn’t remember a time when it wasn’t.
Earlier he had felt fear and he hadn’t enjoyed it. He could find nothing to strike out at so he had crouched, defeated, while the huge animal power caused such pain to the man who led. The man had cried out, the power in his head and filling the space around him, flowing over the ground and covering the leaves of trees and the flowers of the bush.
Thraun had felt it before any of the men had done. They knew too little even to show fear of the power but they should have done. Because it came from nowhere. It had no face, no shape and did not breathe. Yet it was still animal. Thraun knew that and knew also that because it had no form, it was to be feared.
Only the one man had felt it and though he had spoken pain, he had not been harmed. There were no marks on his body and his mind kept its sharpness - Thraun had established that himself.
But he wasn’t sure the man who led was safe. The power could return at any time. And Thraun had to watch over man-packbrother. He would suffer no threat to him. He was the man, the only man, whom Thraun truly recognised though the others around him were lodged in his memory. And man-packbrother was calm in their company, which was good. While he protected man-packbrother he knew he would protect the others. The woman who had life within her, the two men with mists around their souls and the one man whose soul was uneasy, yearning for another time though his heart resisted it.
Thraun would watch and Thraun would protect. Thraun would hunt and Thraun would kill.
He lifted his muzzle from the water and sniffed the air. The scent of the pack was strong in his head and the call of the forest lured him, its ties around him hardening, pulling him back to its heart where he would be free of man.
Julatsa’s Council room was a cold place. Around the oval table, Kerela, Barras, Seldane, Torvis, Endorr, Cordolan and Vilif listened to General Kard outline the battle to come.
At least he and Barras had been successful in persuading Senedai to hold from his killing of innocents. The Wesmen commander had, though, promised to sacrifice every one of those he still held if he was double-crossed. It was a gamble worth taking - when the fighting started, a full day before the Wesmen believed the Shroud would fall, the odds were stacked very heavily in favour of Senedai concentrating all his effort on the College walls. If that was so, the prisoners had a chance.
The brazier behind Kard’s chair guttered suddenly, throwing his face into shadow. The breeze, no more than a whisper of night air, spent itself and the flame brightened.
‘It is critical that we cause as much damage as possible to those immediately outside the walls before Senedai’s army can be mustered. The sequence will be as follows. An hour before dawn, the DemonShroud will be dispersed. Assuming the guards in the tower don’t sound the alarm immediately, eight mages will attempt Communion with our forces outside the city. We have no idea how successful this will be but we can cover all points of the compass with eight. There are also some more obvious places to hide a camp and we’ll target those specifically at the outset.
‘To a certain extent, we will be driven by the tower guards. Should they see us quickly, the whole process will happen that much faster. If not, we will hold our attack until the alarm is raised. At this time, a dozen mages will FlameOrb the tower and both North and South Gates will be opened. Archers and the balance of mages will be sent to the ramparts while my entire College and city Guard force will get outside.
‘Their job is to cause as much damage as possible to Senedai’s defences and guard posts before the balance of his army arrives. At this time, they will fall back, the gates will close and be strengthened by craftsmen and WardLock and the siege can begin again.
‘Finally, I’ve hand-picked a dozen men to attempt to find and free the prisoners. It’s all in the cause of creating confusion. Any questions? ’ Kard leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. Around the table, nods greeted his summary.
‘We can augment the Communion by having the casting take place in the Heart,’ said Vilif.
‘Non-Council and senior circle members are expressly forbidden to enter the Heart,’ remarked Endorr. Kerela chuckled.
‘And you so young,’ she said. ‘I might have expected such an utterance from Torvis, but not you. I am pleased you seek so fervently to uphold our traditions and laws.’
‘Though this is not the time to do so,’ added Torvis.
‘My feelings exactly. Unless there is further dissent, I approve the use of the Heart for this emergency,’ said Kerela.
Barras nodded his support and looked over at Endorr. The young mage scowled but said nothing. Barras had certain sympathy with him. His work, diligence and genius had brought him to the Council and its privileges. It must be hard to see them so easily eroded, whatever the situation.
‘How will your men know when to fall back?’ asked Seldane.
‘Once the tower is empty of Wesmen, I will post ShadowWinged mages, three should be sufficient, above the city to gauge the build-up. I’m really only looking to bite at the guard force of Wesmen, not the army. I will not burn Julatsa to free us; there is no time and I don’t believe it will be an effective tactic. If we do fall to fighting in the streets, it will benefit us as the smaller force, to fight them in smaller, tighter spaces.
‘Once the flying mages see forces strong enough to potentially overwhelm us outside of the gates, we will fall back. They know what to look for and the signals have been learned.’
‘Why risk your men in such an action at all?’ asked Vilif. ‘Better surely to keep them fresh and on the walls.’
Kard shook his head. ‘I disagree. I don’t expect us to be outside for long and th
e action will have two effects. Most importantly, if we strike first blood, it gives us confidence. I can assure you that standing on the ramparts watching an army advance is, pardon the expression, soul-destroying. Second, if we can wreak small havoc it might knock their confidence just that little bit. That, plus our opening spell barrage, could just serve to weaken their resolve.’
‘Hardly,’ said Vilif. ‘They outnumber us almost ten to one.’
‘But theirs is a fragile morale. And when the rear of their line is also struck, well, we can only guess at their reaction.’
Barras raised his eyebrows. Yes, he could guess at the reaction of the Wesmen. Slaughter. But there was no way out. Even if they hid behind the Shroud for a hundred days it would still end in failure. Ultimately, their food would dwindle, more souls would be taken to fuel the Shroud and open revolt would ensue inside the grounds.
‘What in hell’s name did we think we were doing raising the Shroud in the first place?’ he said, a feeling of desperation sweeping suddenly across his body like dead leaves over stone. There was a moment’s quiet in the chamber. Kerela placed a hand on his arm as it rested on the table. It was Kard who spoke.
‘Buying ourselves time,’ he said gently. ‘We all knew that from the start, our brave friend Deale included. And stopping the Wesmen from simply overwhelming us in the rout. For all our brave words and assertions, we have all been hoping for the same thing, to see an army breasting the hills to save us, our city and our College. But now, twelve days later, we have to accept that’s not going to happen, at least while the Shroud remains, and it’s no longer acceptable to watch the murder of our people. In a way, it would be easier to see them put to the sword, disembowelled even. At least then they would retain their souls. But in the Shroud . . . Gods in the sky, we can only imagine their torment.’
The Raven Collection Page 80