‘The man’s arrogance knows no boundary,’ replied Blackthorne, feeling some anxiety. Gresse was right. Selik wouldn’t come unless he felt he had real weight on his side. Truth or lie, Blackthorne was worried what he might hear. He signalled to his guard of six to accompany them and put his heels to his horse’s flanks.
Blackthorne rode quickly, Gresse at his side, his well armoured guards in a loose circle around him as they passed along the north trail out of the town. To the east, the skyline was dominated by the Balan Mountains but in front of them the land was flat, covered in bracken and coarse grass. It was a cool if dry day but there were clouds massing on the mountain peaks. Rain was not far away.
They could see both militia and Black Wings from over a mile away as they rounded a bend in the trail through a small area of devastated woodland. Blackthorne could see eight of his own men, who would have a mage with them, mounted and watching over the Black Wing riders who had all dismounted, leaving their horses to graze at will.
The Baron, feeling irritation at the waste of his valuable time but happy that his increased security had intercepted the Black Wings, reined in by the militia sergeant and dismounted.
‘Stand off but be ready,’ he said.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Blackthorne and Gresse walked the short distance to the Black Wing captain, obvious by his wrecked face, and his men. Selik did not smile as he saw them.
‘Baron Blackthorne, a pleasure I’m sure. And made all the better by the presence of the famous Baron Gresse. You have saved me a further journey.’ He extended a gauntleted hand which both barons ignored.
‘You have nothing to say that I want to hear, so make it quick and be on your way,’ said Blackthorne. ‘I am a busy man.’
‘I thought it only fair to visit you, Blackthorne, and offer you the hand of alliance.’
Blackthorne folded his arms and frowned. ‘Against what?’
‘Well, magic of course. The scourge that has brought this great country to its knees, that threatens to destroy our land and that must be stopped from regaining its dominance over the people.’
‘A country that you would clearly like to see flat on its back with its eyes staring sightless at the sky,’ said Blackthorne.
‘No, one that I would see return to rude health without the ever-present fear of magical devastation.’
Blackthorne exchanged a quick glance with Gresse, who raised his eyebrows and shook his head.
‘You want me, us, to ally with you to throw down the colleges, is that it?’
‘It is a crusade of the righteous,’ said Selik. ‘You are respected men. Your presence could stop unnecessary bloodshed.’
‘Respect that alliance with you would destroy in a moment,’ said Gresse. ‘The Gods only know what bullshit your supporters swallow, but don’t treat us as fools. Your ultimate goal is the murder of every mage in Balaia. There is no unnecessary bloodshed for you, and while I have breath I will oppose you.’
Selik’s eye narrowed and his expression clouded. ‘The people are sick of magic. They want rid of it, they want it exterminated or controlled. And those who support it are the enemies of Balaia.’
‘And these people are the same ones who wallow in filth right now while their families die of hunger and disease and the only thriving creatures are rats,’ said Blackthorne.
‘And all brought upon them by magic.’
‘And magic will save them,’ snapped Blackthorne. ‘My town is free of vermin. It is free of disease. The people are fed. They can see an end. But only with the help of magic. Who will save these people should you succeed in your sick aim?’
‘Healing is a natural process and cats can catch rats,’ said Selik smoothly. ‘Breed more cats.’
Blackthorne walked forward. He was a head taller than Selik. He looked down at the Black Wing captain and saw a brief fear in his eyes that undermined his air of confidence.
‘You will not hasten an end to the college war by intervening. I want to see magic returned to balance, not exterminated. We must end this war by negotiation and strength of will. And while I am angry that there is war and disgusted at the actions taken by Xetesk and Dordover, I will not condone opportunists like you attempting to weaken the colleges to the point of collapse. Balaia must have magic.’
‘The colleges have no will other than to tear each other apart and damn the consequences for this country,’ said Selik, the fire back in his eyes.
‘And I and the barons that are with me will pressure for peace at every stage. You well know Heryst is a force for that peace and my allegiance is with him. Meanwhile, my borders are strong and my mages are loyal to me and wish the conflict ended as fervently as I do.’
‘The righteous will prevail,’ said Selik.
‘Yes, they will,’ said Blackthorne. ‘And you are not among them. This country has magic running through its veins. It is part of all of us. It makes us strong. You will never end magic, Selik, but I sincerely hope you die trying and before you consign more innocent men and women to their deaths. Now, leave my lands immediately. Any further incursion and you will be taken. Do I make myself clear?’
Selik laughed, a rattling unpleasant sound. ‘I have made my point, I have offered you alliance and now I know your allegiance. The people will not forget where you stand, Blackthorne. Nor you, Gresse. And when the army of justice rides south, remember my words.’
‘Leave.’ Blackthorne turned away to his sergeant. ‘See he leaves our lands and pass the word. They are not to be tolerated here again.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
Blackthorne and Gresse walked to their horses.
‘So why didn’t you arrest him then and there?’ asked the older baron.
‘My dear Gresse, there are times when you must gamble and this is one of those times. Something must be done to draw the colleges together, for them to unite as they did when the Wytch Lords threatened. And I can think of nothing better than a Black Wing attack, can you?’
‘And the innocents that die in the process?’
Blackthorne sighed. ‘Regrettable. Regrettable but inevitable. Come, Gresse, we have places to be and I want to wash the taste of that meeting away with a good drop of ale.’
Chapter 22
Ilkar’s quick summary of his conversations with Kild’aar and Rebraal had given Erienne new focus. Leaving Hirad to berate the Julatsan for never revealing he had a brother, she, Denser and Ren hurried over to the house Ilkar had indicated, wary of the panther and its extraordinary keeper who sat silent outside. They were stopped at the door by Kild’aar. The elven woman spoke briefly. Ren turned to them.
‘She says you’re not welcome. She says you will not defile the body of the Al-Arynaar.’
‘Tell her I agree, I will not defile his body,’ said Erienne. ‘But if she wants us to help save her village, she’d better let us through now.’
It was late and Erienne was tired. The ache in her head was growing and it pulsed like a reminder, nudging her to do something, fulfil an obligation she didn’t feel. Ren was talking to Kild’aar. It was a curt exchange. At one point the older elf pointed meaningfully at the panther who so far, like its keeper, had paid them no heed whatever. Eventually, she stepped from the doorway, her contempt clear in the set of her body and expression.
‘She says the panther will claw out your eyes if you do wrong to the body.’
Denser looked at Ren with the expression Erienne recognised whenever The Raven were threatened. Utter disdain.
‘It wouldn’t get within five yards,’ he said, and stalked inside.
They went left as directed into a candle-lit and chokingly scented room containing a single bed on which lay the shrouded figure of Mercuun. Kild’aar followed them in and stood to watch, arms folded in silent disapproval.
Erienne knelt by the bedside and Denser pulled the shroud gently from the body, folding it back to expose his head and bare chest. In the flickering light, Erienne could make out a young, angular face. No bruis
ing was evident on the dark skin.
She placed her hands on his chest, hearing a hiss of indrawn breath from Kild’aar. The skin was cold, hard and waxy. She ignored the unpleasant sensation and tuned herself to the mana spectrum, directing a sheet of mana across the body slowly from head to toe, her fingers picking up everything it touched and penetrated.
Almost immediately she felt a surge of nausea, like gulping rancid air. She fought to keep her concentration, focussing hard on her task, driving her mind to analyse what the mana stream fed back to her. The construct she was using borrowed heavily from the Body-Cast spell, but Mercuun couldn’t have been saved even by this most powerful healer casting. It could knit bone, repair muscle and organ, stop bleeding and soothe bruising. But it couldn’t reverse rot and decay.
She withdrew from Mercuun’s body, nodding at Denser to replace the shroud. For a moment she remained on her knees, rubbing her hands slowly down the top of her thighs. She breathed deeply to clear her head of the fetid sensations she’d experienced and returned her mind to its normal state.
‘All right, love?’ asked Denser, squatting down beside her and stroking her cheek.
‘Yes,’ she said, and looked across at Ren. ‘I need to know some things. Ask her how long he’s been dead.’
Ren nodded and asked the question.
‘Two days,’ she relayed. ‘They are waiting for Rebraal before they commit his body to the forest.’
Erienne shuddered. ‘So recent?’ She spared Denser an anxious glance. ‘Ask her if his bone breaks were tended to.’
‘They were,’ came the delayed reply. ‘They could be treated and they responded. Still he died.’
‘That’s because they weren’t the problem,’ said Erienne grimly. ‘What else do they know?’
‘Nothing,’ translated Ren. ‘He never regained consciousness.’
‘And what about the others who are sick?’ Erienne got to her feet, helped by Denser.
There was a longer delay, Ren listening to what she was hearing with a frown deepening on her beautiful features. She asked a couple of questions then took a deep breath and turned to Erienne.
‘It sounds horrible,’ she said. ‘Loss of balance, bleeding from ears, nose and anus, grinding pain in the gut and chest, loss of vision and hearing, muscle weakness and the clawing of hands and feet. I think there’s probably more but that covers the most common symptoms. The worst thing is, nothing seems to reverse or even ease the symptoms, and death has occurred in as little as four days. No one has survived yet.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Erienne. ‘How many are suffering at the moment?’
‘A hundred and thirty-three.’
‘Oh no,’ said Erienne, putting a hand over her mouth, the size of the problem sending her reeling inside. ‘No wonder she’s been so hostile.’
Erienne walked up to Kild’aar and gripped her folded arms with both hands. She saw a pleading in the elf’s eyes behind the stern mask, a barely repressed fear born of a lack of any answer.
‘I’m sorry, Kild’aar,’ said Erienne. ‘But I need you to show me one of those still alive.’
Kild’aar nodded but didn’t understand her words, only her expression and the emotion in her voice. Ren translated Erienne’s words and was asked another question.
‘She wants to know what you found.’
Erienne bit her lip. ‘He was rotten inside,’ she said as calmly as she could, recalling the feelings of decay and disease that had pervaded her so strongly. ‘All his organs just so much mush inside his body, some of them barely recognisable. His brain was the same. His bones were brittle, no calcium, like he was an elf hundreds of years older than he was. I’ve never seen anything like it. Outwardly, he was fine. On the inside, like he’d been dead for weeks. But I need to see a live patient. Someone I can talk to. Quickly.’
Ren was momentarily dumbfounded by Erienne’s description. She pulled herself together but shivered as she related the awful symptoms to Kild’aar, who gasped as Mercuun’s fate was relayed to her. She looked across at Erienne, all the anger replaced with shock and sadness. She spoke a few words.
‘Kild’aar asks if there is anything you can do.’
Erienne shrugged uselessly. ‘I don’t know. I hope so but I don’t know. I’ve never encountered anything like this.’
Kild’aar didn’t need her words translated. Beckoning them, she made to leave the room, only to stop at the sound of the door opposite opening. Leaning on the frame for support, a half-naked elf shambled out of the room and across the narrow hallway. His right hand was clamped over his left shoulder and his brow was furrowed and covered in a light sweat. His eyes burned as he took in Erienne and Denser, sparing Ren a brief glance before focussing on Kild’aar and launching into a stream of invective.
Erienne moved reflexively back until she felt Denser behind her, watching Kild’aar stretch to touch the wounded elf and having her hand slapped away. She responded to his words, her voice calming, but this only inspired him to shout, nodding into the room, his neck straining with his anger. Erienne felt her heart beating fast, the vehemence of the verbal onslaught shocking. She reached out and found Denser’s hand.
The elf wasn’t letting up. Whatever Kild’aar said, it wasn’t mollifying him. Ren was following the argument. Again and again she looked about to jump in but something she heard stayed her. The noise in the room was intensifying, Kild’aar shouting now. In the end, Ren did finish it. Erienne saw the young elf clench both her fists, step firmly between the two combatants and yell directly into the wounded elf’s face. The shock of the intercession stopped him and he glared at Ren with interest. Seizing her chance, Ren spoke, her tone firm but calm. She pointed behind her at Mercuun, at Erienne, and out past the elf to the front door. The only word Erienne picked up was ‘Ilkar’, but whatever Ren said had instant effect.
The elf nodded, spoke two words and Ren moved aside. He walked slowly into the room, Kild’aar next to him, an arm about his back. He pulled the shroud aside and gazed down at Mercuun, Erienne seeing his shoulders hunch and fall. He whispered words of prayer, knelt very awkwardly and placed his left hand on Mercuun’s forehead, bowing. He was silent for a time, lost in contemplation or memory.
Denser nudged Erienne and whispered.
‘Looks like a tanned version of Ilkar, doesn’t he?’
‘There’s some resemblance,’ agreed Erienne.
‘So there should be,’ said Ren quietly from beside them. ‘That’s Rebraal, Ilkar’s brother.’
At the sound of his name, Rebraal pushed himself slowly and painfully back to his feet and turned to Erienne and Denser. The anger was gone from his face and Erienne was surprised to see fear in his eyes. He spoke and Ren translated.
‘He says he has to go back to the temple. It must be returned to the hands of the Al-Arynaar. He’s leaving at dawn tomorrow.’
‘Tell him we’ll be with him,’ said Denser.
The mage tensed as Rebraal snorted in derision at Ren’s translation. Erienne put a hand on his arm to calm him.
‘Going to do it on his own, is he?’ asked Denser.
Rebraal snapped out some words. Ren held up her hands, replied and got a terse one-word answer.
‘He’s going to kill strangers. Why would he want more there?’
‘My question still stands,’ said Denser.
‘His brother Al-Arynaar will join him in a few days. He hopes it will be soon enough,’ said Ren.
‘And if it isn’t? He’s left the best chance he’s got here mopping sick brows. Put this to him. We’re coming. We can help, and whatever it is that’s got him so scared will be solved that much more quickly.’
Another short elven conversation.
‘He says the forest will kill you.’
‘I know I speak for us all when I say this. We want to help. We have to get mages back to Balaia quickly so anything we can do to speed that, to get the elves to trust us, we will do. And does he really have a choice? Right now, we’re
all he’s got and, Gods burning, one of us is his brother.’
Erienne could feel the passion in Denser. It was a belief she knew well. She only hoped Rebraal saw it too. She watched Ren talk to him, saw him respond while looking over her shoulder at Denser. He shrugged, his expression hardened but he nodded.
‘So we’re all right by him now, are we?’ Denser was terse.
‘No,’ said Ren. ‘You’re here, that’s all. The Raven. He knows that he needs all the help he can get. Ilkar is the key. Without him, you would not be allowed to travel with him.’
Erienne felt a crawling sensation across her chest. ‘Just what is it that’s so wrong he thinks us worth risking?’
‘Rebraal knows what’s causing this. He’s studied the texts at the temple. He’s dedicated his life to preserving the harmony.’
‘And?’ pushed Denser.
‘Rebraal says the harmony has been broken. That the strangers who took the temple have done it, but he doesn’t know how. That’s why we have to go there. Because you can’t cure this sickness with magic or herbs, and unless harmony is restored the elves will die.’
Erienne frowned. ‘Which elves?’
‘All of us.’
Aeb was unsettled. Protectors were used to being alone, travelling with their Given Xeteskian mage. But in times of conflict the Soul Tank, deep in the catacombs of Xetesk, was always troubled. The souls of those Protectors who could not be physically together communicated their thoughts and their fears for one another. Aeb had been hearing much and the anxiety was rising.
Aeb’s position was unique. Officially he was the Given of Denser, the Dawnthief mage. A high honour in itself. But in reality he was more the defender of Sol, The Unknown Warrior, the only man to have been a Protector and returned from the calling, his soul repatriated to his body.
If Protectors could genuinely feel pride, then Aeb would have been proud. But it didn’t change the fact that he could hear the agitation of the souls of his brothers in his head. They weren’t scared. They were bred to fight and defend. But when they were split they were inevitably weakened, and so anxiety filtered across the Soul Tank.
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