‘Tell me how you fared, Meru,’ he said, when he found the energy to speak and the pain had dropped temporarily to a numbing thump.
‘I have announced the alarm. The Al-Arynaar are alerted and the word is spreading. I have stressed the need for our people to be aware north and I have asked for information from anyone who saw these people land. There is confusion about how the strangers found the temple and remained undetected for their whole journey. We fear the worst for the watchers in the northern canopy and uplands. But the ClawBound are walking and the TaiGethen are closing. These strangers will never leave Calaius.’
‘How long before we are assembled to retake Aryndeneth?’
Mercuun sucked in his cheeks. ‘Remember, Rebraal, we weren’t due to be relieved for another seventy days. The gathering has to take place and the prayers must be spoken or we will anger Yniss. There are gaps in the net; people are on hunting expeditions and it is the season of contemplation. So many of those closest by are at hermitage.’
‘How long?’ Rebraal knew what Mercuun said was true, and knew the rituals must be observed. He felt a chill enter his body and a vision played across his mind of the desecration that could be visited on Aryndeneth in a few short days.
‘Eighty will be ready to attack in twenty days’ time.’
‘Twenty days!’ Rebraal’s shout put birds to flight, and in the undergrowth animals scampered from the supposed threat. ‘Gyal’s tears, that is too long.’
He stopped walking and leaned against the rough bole of a fig tree under attack from strangler vines that were slowly enmeshing it. Eventually, they would kill it. He would have understood ten days, maybe even accepted the delay as inevitable, but this . . .
‘Please, Rebraal, the Al-Arynaar are moving as fast as they can. But we are not the reactive force of our fathers’ days. Our mage numbers are small and we cannot afford to go in without their support.’
‘But in twenty days, all could have been lost. The cell of Yniss opens in fourteen. What if they are after his writings? Think of the cost. These aren’t treasure seekers. There are too many of them. They want something they believe is inside the temple.’
Rebraal began walking again, quickly, his eyes piercing the night as surely as any panther’s. He denied the pain that thundered through him at every footfall, praying to Beeth, God of root and branch, to keep him from falling.
‘We can’t wait, Meru. We’ll have to get people from the village. I know they aren’t true believers but we have already been betrayed or how could the strangers have found us?’
He had expected Mercuun to be happy at his sudden insistence on enlisting help from their birthplace, the place where his family were treated almost as outcasts because they would not relinquish what were now popularly considered to be old ways. Although every elf on Calaius believed in the harmony, and in Yniss its highest deity, they did not believe in the sanctity of Aryndeneth enough to honour the village quota and send every fifth child to the calling of the Al-Arynaar.
They did not see the honour it bestowed on their families, nor did they appreciate the importance of keeping the calling strong. Rebraal shuddered at the thought that the strangers might actually damage the stones of the temple. If they were powerful enough, it was possible. Theft of the writings of any god was hideous enough, but the balance of Aryndeneth had to be maintained.
Mercuun, though, said nothing. Rebraal slowed and turned to see his friend twenty yards behind him, crouching on the ground.
‘Meru?’ Rebraal’s head was thudding. He was hungry and thirsty and his blood loss sapped his strength.
Mercuun looked up, his face drawn and anguished. He tried to speak but coughed instead, a sick sound from deep in his chest. Rebraal hurried over to him.
‘Meru, what is it? Snake? Yellowback frog?’
But it wasn’t animal poison. Mercuun shook his head and raised a hand, asking for a moment. He caught his breath and coughed again, a great racking that shook his body. He raised his sweat-slick face to speak.
‘I don’t feel good,’ he managed, Rebraal refraining from telling him he was speaking the obvious. ‘Like a wave of something unclean washed through me. It clogged my lungs but they’re clearing now. I thought I would fall; my balance went for a moment. I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me.’
‘We should rest here. Neither of us is fit to go on. I’ll bring you liana to lace for hammocks, then I’ll fetch food and water. Give me your skins and jaqrui.’
Mercuun made to protest but the relief on his face was all too evident. Instead he nodded. ‘But we must push on before dawn. I agree with you. I don’t think we’ve very much time.’
Chapter 10
The morning cacophony of monkeys, birds, insects, frogs and anything else that had a voice was in full cry when Ben-Foran decided to wash in the temple pool. Yron’s rather clumsy work on the statue’s hand might have eroded the majesty of the sculpture but it had had the desired effect. The much increased water flow into the pool had quickly cleared the grime from four dozen sweaty filthy bodies, and now, in the diffused light of dawn, it was crystal clear once again.
Yron was keen for his men not to get lazy and so, barring the sick and the mages, who were tending the ill and examining scrolls and parchments in a room that had opened up with the first touch of light, everyone was outside. Everyone, that is, except Ben, who was duty temple officer. While he swam, Yron and all the rest of the relatively fit were either on hunting parties, investigating the rear of the temple and the area surrounding it, collecting more firewood or preparing breakfast and making a stores inventory.
Despite the hardships of the rainforest, the loss of so many of those he’d travelled with and the feeling he couldn’t shift that, despite his loyalty, this was a raid too far, Ben-Foran had to admit to himself that he was rather enjoying it. Partly it was because he had survived with barely a scratch and without catching the fever to which so many had succumbed. Mostly it was because he was with Captain Yron, a real leader and universally loved by the men in his charge. He commanded total respect because he treated all in his command as equals, whatever their rank; a very difficult balance to strike given his position of superiority. And he was a great teacher, constantly springing surprises and doing things by a book all of his own devising. His unorthodoxy didn’t endear him to his masters and was, no doubt, why he had gained plenty of experience in places like the Calaian rainforests, but for his men, it was something they could always talk about. If they survived.
Ben-Foran was scared of swimming in rivers, indeed any open area of water where creatures might lurk, but this pool was relaxation itself. On a whim, he duck-dived and swam down, drifting slowly over the statue’s hand that lay at rest at the bottom of the pool, the living forest sounds muted as the water closed over his head.
He could see that part of the thumb had broken off where it had hit the bottom of the pool and was trapped underneath the rest. Bracing himself against the back wall, he half rolled, half pushed the hand aside to release the thumb, snatching it up and surging back to the surface with it held aloft like a trophy.
‘Morning, Ben.’ The captain’s voice rang out around the temple.
‘Good morning, sir,’ replied Ben, turning in the water to see Yron silhouetted in the doorway, the canvas covering tied back.
‘Glad to see you’re putting your duty to good use. I can’t imagine anything we’ll need more in the days to come than an expert diver.’
Ben-Foran blushed, splashed hurriedly to the side of the pool and hauled himself out to sit dripping at its edge, heart suddenly beating hard.
‘Sorry, sir.’
To his surprise and relief, Yron laughed. ‘Don’t worry, boy,’ he said, slapping him hard on the shoulder, the wet crack echoing off the temple walls. ‘It’s exactly what I would have done.’
Ben got up and pulled on his loincloth, the thumb tight in his hand.
‘Still, I see your exploration wasn’t entirely wasted,’ said Yron,
indicating his prize.
‘No, sir. I saw it had broken off, you know, and—’
‘—thought you’d have yourself a souvenir.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Yron tutted and shook his head. He snapped his fingers then held out his hand. ‘Well, with one small amendment, it was a sound plan.’
A little reluctantly, Ben handed over the thumb. Yron examined it closely. It was a finely detailed piece, a little over five inches long.
‘Now this is a lesson it is my pleasure to teach you,’ said Yron, smiling broadly.
‘What’s that, Captain?’ Ben felt the question was expected though he had no desire to ask it.
Yron leaned in a little closer. ‘It’s something you’ll no doubt be able to practise in the future when you have your own command. It’s called pulling rank.’ He chuckled and slipped the piece into his pocket before spreading his arms wide. ‘There you are. Simple, isn’t it? Now, get yourself dressed, there’s something I want you to see.’
Ben nodded, aware suddenly that he was already dry. He frowned and paused for a moment. It was definitely hotter in here than it had been yesterday afternoon. Odd. He shrugged and pulled on his trousers.
As leader of the task force, he knew it had to be him. Sytkan took the longest walk of his life up the gentle slopes of Herendeneth towards the needle. He walked alone as a show of peaceful intent but the only solace he could really take as he walked was that he could hope they thought he was here to help.
They watched him as he picked his way up around the graves of the ancients, their heads unmoving, eyes not blinking. Sytkan was acutely aware of his frailty, of the ease with which either of these incredible creatures could snuff out his life.
He’d had no real idea of their size, their sheer domination of the space around them, until he got closer. And there they lay, like two huge golden sculptures. They were each a hundred feet and more long from nose to tail, the mounds of their bodies higher than his house and their stupendous wings folded back along their glittering scaled flanks.
Sytkan was less than thirty feet from them, his steps tentative and nervous, his nose full of their sharp wood and oil odour, when they moved. Heads as tall as he was swept out on long graceful necks and arrowed down on his insignificance. It was all he could do to stay standing.
‘Um . . .’ he began, and all his planned words fell from his memory. His eyes fixed on the upper fangs of the larger dragon as it opened its mouth. Dear Gods burning, those teeth.
‘I am Sha-Kaan, Great Kaan of my Brood. Nos-Kaan rests by me. And I understand from my Dragonene and friend, Hirad Coldheart, that you are Sytkan, mage of Xetesk. You and yours are here to find us a way home from this disagreeable dimension.’
‘I . . . Yes,’ said Sytkan. ‘I . . . That is, at least partially. And that’s why I - we - may need to ask you some questions. Is . . . um, will that be acceptable?’
The great dragon laughed. The breath blew Sytkan from his feet, the sound pounded around his skull and reverberated through ground and air.
‘It is expected,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘How else will you understand when you find Beshara?’
Sytkan got slowly to his feet and dusted himself down. ‘Beshara?’ he ventured.
‘Our home,’ said Sha-Kaan.
‘Sorry, of course,’ said Sytkan, never having heard the word before. His gaze locked on to Sha-Kaan’s, he saw deep into those bottomless eyes and the power they contained and his composure deserted him. ‘Well, I er, I came up here to introduce myself. I’m the leader of the Xeteskians and I assure you of our good intent as to wanting to work with you in the best way possible and is there a good or better or worse - if you see what I mean - time to talk to you?’
Sytkan gasped in a breath. Sha-Kaan regarded him for a long moment, the huge slitted black pupil narrowing very slightly. His eyes blinked slowly and he stretched his mouth. The mage fought the urge to turn and run.
‘Well met,’ said Sha-Kaan without hint of warmth. ‘Ask us what you will, when you will, though I suggest when we are landed is your best time.’ Sha-Kaan laughed at his own lame joke. ‘Now go, unless there is anything more?’
‘No. No, no,’ said Sytkan, relief flooding through him. ‘Thank you.’
He turned but had taken only one pace before he found himself staring at Sha-Kaan again, the dragon’s long neck curving away out of sight behind him.
‘Tell me, Sytkan,’ rumbled Sha-Kaan. ‘There are but two Al-Drechar and two Kaan dragons on this island. Yet to research and gather information you have brought with you thirty mages and a hundred Protectors. Perhaps you would like to explain.’
Sytkan felt cold all around his heart. ‘Well, there are many disciplines represented,’ he blustered. ‘Many strands to the research. The Protectors are merely—’
Sha-Kaan snorted derisively, dumping Sytkan on his backside again. ‘Do not presume to insult my intelligence.’ His head shot forwards, his muzzle stopping inches from Sytkan’s face. All the mage could see were scales, teeth and ire. ‘My flame ducts may be dry but these -’ he snapped his jaws meaningfully ‘- are in perfect working order. I will be watching you. All of you. Do not give me cause to become disappointed.’
Selik wanted to laugh out loud. Even though he’d ridden hard from Erskan and they’d stopped well after nightfall for only a few snatched hours of rest before setting off again at daylight, he hadn’t expected to sight his quarries until the following day at least. Yet there they were, no more than a couple of miles ahead on the trail, the dust of their passage clouding into the warm late morning.
They were heading north on the principal trail that led to the ruined town of Denebre and then on into the mage lands. A fertile part of Balaia, the landscape here, like so much of the country, had been ruined. Trees lay snapped or uprooted, farms were abandoned and fields lay unplanted or with the remnants of rotted crops still in the soil. It was a gently rolling vista, with shallow slopes and vales criss-crossed with a lattice of streams and rivers. To the west, the Blackthorne Mountains made up the entire horizon, their gaunt majesty punctuated only by the eastern face of the Varhawk Crags, scene of one of the most famous victories of the last Wesmen wars.
But Selik wasn’t concerned with the scene around him right now. He and his men had reined in at the top of a rise and were looking down onto a grassland plain. In the middle of it, a single covered wagon drove slowly on, the reason for the mages’ slow progress obvious. Despite Erskan’s assertion that he numbered mages among his friends, he hadn’t been over-kind to these, however many there were. The carriage was being dragged by a single, fairly small horse.
‘What’s your guess at the numbers in there?’ asked Selik of Devun.
The man blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, they’re very slow but it’s impossible to see what the horse’s condition is from here. I reckon they’re overloaded so, assuming there are two up front, there could be as many as four inside, plus baggage.’
‘That’s assuming there were ever that many mages in Erskan.’
Devun shrugged. ‘Best to assume more than less.’
‘All right.’ Selik nodded, then raised his voice to address all of them. ‘We’re going to assume there are six but I doubt there’s a warrior guard in there with them. You all know what to do. Let’s not rush and they may not hear us until it’s too late. It’s time to make another statement. Let’s go.’
There was precious little cover and they would be seen as soon as anyone looked back; and with no magical defence, they were open to spell attack. But there were fifty Black Wings, all of whom knew the dangers of attacking mages, and their tactic was simple.
Pushing on at just under a canter, they narrowed the distance quickly, the carriage ahead bumping and rattling over the uneven ground. Selik rode front and centre of the formless group, feeling a thrill through his body as they closed. This would be a blow for Balaia. A blow for the righteous.
Perhaps half a mile behind the carriage they were spotted. The back of
the square-framed canvas covering twitched aside, and though he couldn’t hear it, Selik could imagine the shout of alarm and saw its result as the single horse was urged to a flat-out gallop.
The carriage began to pull away but Selik could see immediately that it wasn’t sustainable. Resisting the urge to up the Black Wings’ pace, he was content to follow, waiting for the carriage to slow when the horse spent itself and enjoying the desperation he knew they must be feeling. Even if they didn’t know exactly who was following them, fifty men on horseback were never going to be good news at a time like this.
A quarter of a mile behind and with the horse slowing dramatically, the carriage slewed to a halt across the trail in a cloud of dust. Figures leapt from back and front to kneel motionless. Casting.
It was to be expected. Selik signalled spread and gallop, circling his arm above his head and splaying gloved fingers wide. Behind him, the Black Wings picked up the pace, driving into a rough double-rowed crescent. The quartet at the points, his finest horsemen, nocked arrows into bows, steering their mounts with stirrup and thigh.
The blood surged through Selik’s body, sending pins and needles into the dead parts of his face and chest. He dragged in a huge breath and yelled a triumphant cry, the sound of two hundred hooves thrumming in his head.
In front of him the mages remained still, bar one who looked up, spreading his arms wide in an enveloping motion. At the points, his bowmen tracked in, loosed their arrows and wheeled away immediately, Selik seeing the shafts all bounce from the cast HardShield.
The sky flashed orange.
‘Break!’ yelled Selik, half a dozen FlameOrbs soaring out towards them.
The Black Wing lines broke and scattered, the globes of mana fire, each the size of a skull, arcing across the sky. The mages were good, individual Orbs following their targets faster than a horse could gallop and splashing down to cover two or three riders and mounts, the soundless impact rendered horribly real by the screams of men and horses.
The Raven Collection Page 170