Parts of it were still there. Dimly-heard shouts. A pain like she had never experienced before, splintering through her mind. Voices in the darkness. A curious odour like paint burning. An enveloping of her consciousness in a strangling mesh. Contracting, contracting.
It was this she had woken to, with the thought that she must fight. With no idea of the passage of time, she was unaware how long her mind had been under attack. And it was an attack, she was sure. Like it had been waiting for a slip, the One entity inside her had reacted instantly to Myriell’s death and the removal of the suppression of its potential.
Now she could recall it burgeoning within her with a power far too strong to control or even deflect. It had used her mind as a focus and gorged itself on the elements around it. But it had not been allowed to give unfettered vent to itself. Something had blocked it from the outside. Denser. It had to be. Only he understood. Only he among those she had been standing with was capable.
For the first time in what felt like an age, she experienced warmth in her mind. She reached out and probed gently for Cleress but the Al-Drechar was not there. She might be dead too. Probably was. That meant that she, Erienne, was alone to fight the One. Not to defeat it, but to bend it to her will. She imagined it like a spider, the great mound of its body resting on her conscious mind, its eight legs gripping her and squeezing. She couldn’t hope to push the body away, not with her limited experience. But she had to stop the constriction. So, in her mind’s eye, she had to keep on prising away one of the legs, or maybe two. Keep it occupied, keep it off balance.
The question, of course, was how.
What had Myriell and Cleress told her? She struggled to remember. Her mind was clouded, the One all around her, trying to feed off her, drag her mind’s energy, leach it away and use it. It came to her. The One was not sentient and it was dangerous to think of it as such. That was what they had said. In fact, it was little more than a channeller for elemental forces as much as her mind was a focus for those same forces.
This was where she had had difficulty understanding them. It was not sentient but in one sense it had to be an entity or how had they managed to transfer it from her dying daughter to her? The point was, she had been told, that it was an unguarded channeller. Her mind had to be both guardian and focus. And it was the guardian-ship that was hardest learned, the suppression of the ability of the One to suck in energy and use it destructively.
That was what the Al-Drechar had been doing. Closing off its access to the elements. And this was what made it different from any magical power. Mana was naturally chaotic and unfocused, harmless in its natural state. So were earth, air, fire and water harmless. The One entity, though, gave them direction. And the mind of the mage in which it rested gave them focus, gave them outlet.
In order to prise one of the legs away, then, she had to force her mind to focus in the way she wanted it to. Wrest back control. Imagination was the key as it was to most magic. The ability to see the shapes the power formed and imbue them with the necessary motive force.
Actually, she thought as she swam towards some form of active conscious thought, that was a very simplistic view. Her Dordovan masters would have chastised her for it. The Al-Drechar would have praised her.
She kept the idea of the spider and its legs uppermost in her mind. The first thing she had to do was stop the dragging in of elemental chaos. That was like a gale inside her head. Once she had done that, perhaps she could begin to bend the One her way. Perhaps not. She looked deep inside herself and saw the yawning chasm the One had opened up to the flow of the elements. It was terrifying, like standing at the mouth of a volcano as the lava boiled up and knowing she had to close the crater.
She quailed from the task, immediately feeling the legs begin to tighten.
No, she said to herself and for the benefit of her unwelcome parasite. I will not yield to you. You will not have me.
And it will not, said a voice. Not with your strength. And not while I have mine.
Cleress? Delight flooded her. Another voice. A hand in the dark.
I am weak but I am here. Come on child, let us get you back to those who love you. The One blocks you. It is a case of knowing where to push and then how to hold open the door.
Can I do it?
Only you can ever know that.
Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon tribes, and leader by consent of the Wesmen nation, had been pleasantly surprised by the response of the lords and tribal heads gathered before him as dawn broke over the encampment.
His palatial tent was full of leather and fur-clad senior tribesmen, all of whom he knew by name. The air was thick with pipe smoke, sweat and opportunity. The eyes that stared back at him from beneath hard brows were concentrated with energy and desire.
Representatives of forty tribes had answered his call, spurred to action by the mode of communication, passed by the tribal Shamen through the Spirits rather than by bird or rider. War council was invoked, his message had said. Muster your men. Be ready for victory over our oldest enemy. Come and hear my words.
And they had come and Tessaya was pleased. Now they waited for those words.
‘The storms have passed and we have emerged strong and united. That you are all here and in such obvious health is proof enough. Through the harsh times, we did not fight. We shared, we survived. We are fit, our crops grow once more and our children laugh while they play, their bellies full.
‘It is not so in the east.’
Murmurs ran around the tent. He saw Riasu nod and smile. He knew more than most but less than Tessaya. It would forever be the way while he lived. Information was the key to power, not strength of arms.
‘My Lords,’ said Tessaya, holding up his hands. ‘The warring colleges are tearing the east apart. The colleges blame each other and a single small child for the forces that raged against them. I prefer to think the Spirits have exacted their vengeance. Now it is our turn.
‘It has set college against college, mage against mage. It has set man against his brother. But more, it has weakened them and the fabric of the society of which they are so proud. They sneer at us across the Blackthorne Mountains, terming us savages. Yet who is it whose children die in the streets in front of their fine-built houses? Who is it who determines to war until the last man lies dying in his own blood?
‘We may not have the minds of mages. We may not have the great cities and ports. But we have something far more important.’ He thumped his chest. ‘We have heart.’
The Lords in front of him roared their approval. He waited for the noise to die down, draining his goblet and refilling it, enjoying the atmosphere. It would not be so easy from here.
‘The true test of a people is that they can thrive in adversity. We have done so. We have emerged stronger but I also like to think we have emerged wiser.’
The assembled tribesmen quietened further, sensing they were not to hear exactly what they expected.
‘The wars of six years ago have taken their toll. We are no longer a numerous people, able to mass tens of thousands of willing warriors for the fight. Indeed, had we taken Balaia in the last invasion, we would have lost it again when our enemies regathered. The Wytch Lords sought dominion by destruction. My vision is of a place where the Wesmen tribes can prosper, becoming stronger every day. A place where our children can run free and where each of us here present is spoken of as our Gods are today.’
He paused and smiled, noting their reactions. Some were confused, others disappointed, most angry.
‘So, are we to fight the colleges?’ asked Riasu.
Tessaya nodded. ‘No Wesman will ever offer them the hand of peace. For us nothing but their elimination will make our children truly safe and let us build our world. The colleges are a curse on this land. In that, if in nothing else, we agree with the Black Wings. But they would have been our masters in an unequal alliance. The reason their bodies smoulder still is that the Wesmen will be mastered by no one. No one.’
Faces were
relaxing, expressions softening.
‘I will invite your thoughts in a moment,’ said Tessaya. ‘And I will invite your support also. In this fight, we must stand together and not stray from our singleminded path.
‘Julatsa is still ruined and only hanging on to its status by the merest thread. Every piece of intelligence I have points to Xetesk being on the verge of collapse under the onslaught of Lystern and Dordover, who are in uneasy alliance and supported by elves who will return south when their work is complete.
‘I propose that we strike now at Xetesk. We take the city as we did Julatsa. We destroy the college as we did Julatsa. When Xetesk is gone, the balance of power will shift. Dordover will fight Lystern for dominion. All we have to do is wait for them to weaken each other while we reinforce and plan. When the time is right, we will move north and take them, one by one.
‘But we will not repeat the mistakes of our past, when our lust for victory drove us on and on, ever thinner in strength. We will not fragment and we will not overstretch. So when the colleges are gone, we will stop, build our lives and share our new lands. And we will trade with the Barons and Lords of Eastern Balaia, letting their greed help us grow to dominance. What say you?’
‘We are a warrior race,’ said a voice from the back. It was Quatanai, a man with plenty of popular support. ‘It is not our way to farm ourselves into decadence.’
‘Neither is it our way to live in cities,’ said Tessaya. ‘Why should we tear them down when they can work for us? The colleges must be destroyed because magic must die. But beyond that, it is surely better to parley from a position of strength, make the Eastern Balaians trade with us on our terms.’ He smiled. ‘How many of us do not enjoy Blackthorne’s wines?’
He heard chuckles and affirmatives and shrugged his shoulders, his palms up.
‘Who here knows they can ferment the grapes better than the Baron’s men? It is simple, my Lords. We keep what we need, destroy what we do not. Anything else is a waste of our blood and I will not have my people die needlessly. Not now, not ever again.
‘Now, are you with me?’
The massed cry of ‘Aye!’, the clashed goblets and the cheers told him he had them, for now at least. But he didn’t fool himself that they bought all that he had said. For them, the chance to strike the killing blow against magic was enough. The test of his leadership would come should that battle be won.
Tessaya caught the gaze of Quatanai, saw his thoughts as plain as if he had spoken them aloud.
He would have to be careful.
Chapter 29
‘Denser!’ Thraun’s voice was low and urgent.
It was mid morning. The sounds of fighting at the east gates of Xetesk rolled up the gentle slope, filling the air with discordance. From where he had been lying, Denser had guessed that the combat was mainly magic-based, the two opposing armed forces having all but fought themselves to a standstill.
But this morning, both sides would have renewed hope of a breakthrough. With no Protectors in the Xeteskian lines and no elves in the allied lines, both were weakened in muscle and in spirit. Mere men opposed each other now. And those with the greater will, who had remained the stronger through the days of battle, would prevail.
Denser scrambled to his feet. Above him, the trees were calm and a warm sun dried the sodden ground. While he had been resting on leather under his elven-made bivouac, the mana had coursed into him through the dark gateway Xeteskians had used for centuries, and the mana storm had blown itself out.
Thraun was sitting by the embers of the night’s fire, one leg stretched in front of him. The trouser had been cut away and he wore clean bandages through which a hint of blood had soaked. Next to him lay Erienne, beautiful but so pale in the broken sunlight. He stroked hair from her face and looked up at Denser.
‘She is strong,’ he said. ‘I told you.’
Hope gripped Denser. He dropped to his knees at her side and stared at her face. Beneath their lids, her eyes were moving.
‘Erienne,’ he said, leaning in close, his lips brushing hers, feeling their warmth. ‘Can you hear me, love?’
‘She fights,’ said Thraun.
‘How long has she been like this?’
Thraun frowned, struggling to frame the words. Denser prompted him.
‘An hour ago? Just now?’
Thraun nodded. ‘Now,’ he affirmed. ‘The sun helps her.’
Denser understood. Thraun had refused to leave her side when Denser had been forced to rest to regain mana stamina. She had slept in his arms under a leather and leaf shelter, his warmth about her. They went back a long way. Thraun had been a good friend of Alun, her first husband, and now the troubled shapechanger was uniquely positioned to understand her pain. Like him, she was possessed of a force she hated and craved in equal measure.
‘You think Cleress is there?’ he asked.
Thraun nodded again. ‘Her spirit is calm.’
‘Thank you, Thraun,’ said Denser. ‘What would I do without you?’
Thraun shrugged. ‘Raven,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘You must rest more.’
Denser couldn’t refuse. He looked into Thraun’s eyes and saw the frustration boiling there. He didn’t think Thraun would ever quite recover himself. The worst thing was that Thraun knew it too.
‘I know it’s hard,’ he said, climbing slowly to his feet and putting a hand on his chest. ‘But in here, you are everything you always were, and we’ll never forget that.’
He walked back towards his bivouac. Placed at the heart of the elven camp, they were shielded from the prying eyes of the Lysternans near them. It was probable that the allies suspected they were here, or at least very close. The mana storm would have seen to that. But the camp was sealed by TaiGethen and ClawBound. None would dare cross the line. The elves would not hesitate to fight back.
He paused by the sleeping forms of Hirad, Darrick and The Unknown. Men pushed right to their limits and now paying the price. On their arrival back in the elven camp it had been immediately apparent that all needed spell treatment in addition to their bandaging and wound cleansing. Their plan to leave at next dusk was simply not practical.
Darrick was the worst. He’d collapsed from his horse the moment they’d stopped. His blood loss was serious, the wound across his hip deep and open through his forced action. The spell had knitted the damage, bandages held the wound closed but only time would replace the blood. He would be weak for days.
Hirad’s armour was being repaired elsewhere. What was left behind was a shirt barely recognisable as such. Both arms were ragged, his chest was bandaged from throat to gut and his forehead too was hidden beneath clean coverings.
The Unknown had fared better in the fights but had followed that exertion by all but carrying Darrick for over two hours into the teeth of a gale. His was a muscle weariness only rest would relieve.
Strange. Before meeting the elves of the Al-Arynaar and TaiGethen, there was no way The Raven would have slept without one of their number on guard. How necessity bred reliance and trust, how the world moved on. Denser dragged the leather from his bivouac and lay down in the warm open air. He began to relax into himself, seeking the demon gateway from where the mana flowed to feed Xeteskian mages at rest. The demons would close it if they could but until that day, it was the best source of stamina replenishment a dark mage had.
Dimly, he heard the soft padding of a panther, no doubt come to check on Thraun and Erienne. That was why The Raven could rest. Denser closed his eyes.
‘She is so close,’ muttered Vuldaroq. ‘And we are powerless.’
He pushed a forkful of food into his mouth and chewed slowly, looking up and across the table at Heryst only when he’d swallowed. He reached for his wine glass and sipped.
Lystern’s Lord Elder Mage had arrived in Dordover the previous evening to discuss the next moves in the war. So far, the allies had been less than convincing in their efforts to overcome the defence of Xetesk. They had been surprised by the te
nacity of the enemy and had been forced to commit too many men to the watcher ring around the city. Rightly they feared the excursions of familiars and assassins but had failed to stop the attacks by both demons and Cloaked mages. They had also failed to stop supplies entering the college, and The Raven were still free.
The strained relations with the elves hadn’t helped. They couldn’t deny their intervention was valuable, even critical, to the effort. But it wasn’t as a partner in belief. The elves had their agenda. And now they’d taken what they wanted and were moving on. That changed the battle plan, as did the worsening of the Julatsan mana focus.
Vuldaroq found himself wondering about the benefits of Julatsa failing terminally. Heryst, he was sure, was not.
‘We will bide our time and wait for our opportunity,’ said Heryst. ‘She and The Raven have the protection of every elf on the battlefield. We cannot act now. She’s going nowhere except, presumably, Julatsa. We can wait.’
‘Tempting, though, isn’t it?’ said Vuldaroq.
Heryst smiled briefly. ‘You and I can sit here and say that. My commanders on the east gate front would say otherwise. I suspect we do not have the warrior or mage strength there to take them on though we outnumber them almost three to one. And even if we did, we would have to leave the east gate unguarded to do it. Like I say, we wait. She will fall to us eventually.’
‘And when she does, we must be agreed on how she is handled,’ said Vuldaroq.
‘She must be treated as a joint asset, Vuldaroq. We have been through this already. Please don’t claim fealty over a woman who does not see herself as belonging to any of us.’
Vuldaroq held up his hands. ‘Another time, my Lord Heryst. Other matters are more pressing.’
‘We agree there.’
‘Now, clearly your forces at the east gate will be most affected by the departure of the elves to Julatsa. And, with Izack’s very astute decision to reinforce the north front with Lysternan forces, you are further weakened there. I have some reserve still in Dordover that I can offer to you. What do you need from me? Men? Mages?’
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