Dawnthief

by James Barclay

  Thraun found the going relatively straightforward. Able to switch grips at will, he, like Hirad, could effectively rest one arm at a time. Jandyr, though, was wilting. The bowman's light blade was no match for the slugging power of the axe blows and his guard was being forced down inch by inch. Soon, they would cut him.

  Will almost shouted with delight when he felt it—a let-in to the long pinhole. All he had to do was direct the filament wire down.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “Will, do nothing.” The Unknown fielded the next pair of blows, thinking hard. “They'll go for you when you release the stone, I'm sure of it. We need to be ready. Jandyr?”

  “Yes,” the elf gasped.

  The heat was becoming stultifying and suffocating, the Temple airless, poisoned by the dead. None of them could last much longer.

  “On my word, Will's going to pop the lid and grab the stone. Field your next blow, grab him and run him through the cordon to the end of the Temple. Got that? Will?”

  “Yes.”

  Another blow, stronger, faster. More grunts of exertion.

  “The rest of us, field and dodge, they won't come for us. Thraun, you're the eyes, although I'm sure we all know where our enemies are standing. On my word then.”

  “Strike coming,” said Thraun.

  “Will, now!”

  The thief pushed down on the filament, and as the lid swung up, he grabbed the stone.

  “I have it.”

  The Unknown caught the blows on his blade, ducked and charged through the gap between his two attackers, sensing Hirad do likewise. Jandyr turned and grabbed Will, pulling him upright and forward.

  “Run, Will!” The elf's cry echoed around the Temple, loud in the darkness.

  Axes rose and fell, clashing sparks off the tiles as they bit. It was enough to see Will and Jandyr sprinting for the far end of the Temple, picking a path through the corpses. The scraping started again, then the clank of metal on stone. The statues were on the move.

  “Jandyr, you're the eyes for Will,” said The Unknown. “You should be able to dodge them. Don't get trapped.”

  “Count on it.” Jandyr sounded exhausted.

  “Let's get one of those bloody shutters open. Thraun, direct me.”

  “Dead ahead of you now. Put your arms out. There.”

  “Ilkar, what did you find?” asked The Unknown.

  The ominous sounds of the walking statues bounced off the walls, mingling with the occasional wet crunch as they drove stone feet through the bodies of their former masters. Jandyr's voice could be heard, low and comforting, but bone tired.

  “There is no mechanical switch,” said Ilkar as The Unknown felt around the shutter's edge. “It's all part of the same casting, I'm sure of it.”

  “Then we're going to have to batter it. Thraun, let's see if we can move that plinth. I suggest you sheath your weapons and stand back to the wall. We don't want any accidents.”

  It seemed to Will that at every turn, he was exposed to a new fear. First the Familiar, then his useless hands, next the sudden dark and now this. Eight huge statues coming for him and him alone because he held the Death's Eye Stone. He hadn't even let himself think of the power that animated them, or that could remove The Raven's capacity for victory so effectively.

  All that bothered him now was the sound of their feet marking the floor, that he couldn't see them coming and that, despite Jandyr's words and hand on his shoulder, he was certain he was going to perish in this nightmare place that smelt so much of death.

  “Will, you're shaking.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Listen to me and you'll be fine. They're closing in, so we have to move in a second to force a change of direction. I'm going to move us left. Grab hold of my arm and keep walking—there's no need to run because they can't cover the whole diameter of the Temple. Do you understand?

  “Yes.” The scraping was loud in Will's ears, the clang of metal boots sounding his death knell, his mind full of the images of axes felling from the disguise of night.

  “Let's move.”

  They hugged the wall, Jandyr gasping with every pace, Will trying to concentrate on merely putting one foot in front of the other. The elf walked quickly, and twice Will all but lost his grip, tripping on the bodies they had so recently dragged to the Temple's edge. But the fear of being left alone to be cut to pieces kept his fingers tight on the flesh of Jandyr's upper arm. An abrupt change of direction and Will stumbled.

  “Where?”

  “Sorry, Will. We're heading to the other side of the Temple.” Jandyr's breath was tortured. “It'll give me more space for the next move.”

  Thraun swept the case from the plinth and tried to tip the column of carved marble. For a moment he thought it was set into the floor, but with a crack that signified the shifting of the dust of ages, it moved.

  “Unknown?”

  “Thank the Gods.”

  The two big warriors hauled the plinth to an acute angle before wrapping their arms around it and heaving it from the floor, grunting with the effort and breathing heavily.

  “Lead away, Thraun,” said The Unknown. “Quickly.”

  Will slipped on a slick of new blood and went sprawling, shouting as his hand was wrenched from Jandyr's arm. He rolled over and came to his haunches, eyes probing desperately at the impenetrable dark, recoiling as they touched cold torn flesh.

  “Jandyr,” he wailed. “Don't let them get me!” Movement by him and a hand on his arm. He flinched then relaxed.

  “I've got you, Will. I've got you.” Jandyr's voice was a beacon of calm. “We're all right. They can't get us. Come on, we need to keep moving.”

  Will rose to his feet. “Which way?”

  “Just follow me.”

  The Unknown absorbed the recoil of the first blow on the shutter, his massive shoulders shuddering under the reactive force. But the wood had given. Magically sealed it might have been, but it was still just wood.

  “Next time,” said Thraun. “Ready?”

  “Go.”

  The wood shivered. They heard it splinter but still they weren't through.

  “Close,” Thraun said. “Again.”

  “Go.”

  The marble plinth crashed through the shutter. Thraun let his end go and The Unknown drove forward, pushing the makeshift battering ram out on to the path. A jagged hole in the wood let in fresh air, a wan light that shone like a watch beam and, more importantly, a flood of mana as the structure of the Cold Room was broken.

  “That'll do,” said Denser.

  In moments, the Temple filled with a gentle glow as Erienne tempered her LightGlobe, wary of the danger of a new sort of blindness. Jandyr and Will were still evading. As the globe deployed, they began to run toward the main doors. Jandyr was limping badly.

  “See to those doors,” said Hirad.

  “I've got them.” Ilkar's ForceCone focused where they met. Its casting blew them clean off their hinges to cartwheel into the glorious warm night air.

  “Let's go, let's go!” Hirad led the run from the Temple, gulping in fresh air, unfettered by the taste of death. “If they follow, we can outrun them. Come on!”

  The Raven exploded from the Temple, Jandyr and Will last, crashing into the dirt beyond the steps. The statues stopped at the doors, unable to move beyond the confines of their casting. The Raven stopped at the tree line.

  First one masked figure, then another, stepped from the shadows. Eyes so long used to the dark took it all in as plain as if it were day. In moments, ninety Protectors barred their passage, headed by a single rider.

  The Raven formed up, The Unknown at its centre, eyes boring into the ranks behind the horseman. All the time, he knew they'd been there.

  Will stayed by Jandyr. The elf lay face down in the earth, blood running from a gash that led from shoulder to hip.

  “He needs help.”

  “So do we,” said Erienne.

  Will looked up as Denser spoke.


  “Styliann. You're a little late for the rescue.”

  “Remarkable,” said Styliann. “It was imperative you survived. Balaia doesn't have much time.”

  The hordes were coming and Darrick had to make the most critical command decision of his career. He'd seen The Raven safely into the west and, a day later, Styliann and one hundred Protectors had galloped through, bent on vengeance. He hadn't spoken to the Lord of the Mount but he had seen into his eyes. He pitied the Wesmen who encountered that mark of death.

  The situation was clear to him. While the defence of the east was his charge, the real battle was about to be fought in the west by The Raven and, it seemed, by Styliann. Darrick looked about him. He'd assembled the most capable staff he could think of, any one of whom could marshal the defence forces equally as well as himself.

  To the south, while Gresse and Blackthorne's loss of the latter's town was a serious blow, their harrying tactics should delay the Wesmen advance on one flank, and to the north, he had to believe that the Colleges would hold Triverne Inlet. There lay the greatest concentration of magic, and there the Shamen could be effectively countered for now.

  In his heart, Darrick knew he couldn't stand at the head of Understone Pass and wait for the result in the Torn Wastes. He wanted his five hundred horses, his fifty mages and his freedom to ride.

  He wanted a fight, and by the Gods he was going to have one.

  Ilkar walked away, back toward the Temple. He was shaking. Styliann's voice came to him through a haze.

  “I really am very sorry.”

  Ilkar shrugged and turned. “When did this all happen? What happened at Triverne Inlet?” He couldn't understand how the situation could possibly be so bad.

  “Yesterday. I received communion earlier this evening. They wiped us out. We had thought to hold them there for days but their magic was too strong,” said Styliann. “They've got something we never saw three hundred years ago. White fire that brings down walls and something altogether darker that can eat the flesh.”

  The Raven listened in silence, The Unknown standing with the Protectors, his eyes unfocused. The mage force and warriors at Triverne Inlet had been massacred, overwhelmed by magic-wielding Shamen. The Wesmen were less than three days from Julatsa and there had to be doubts over the Colleges’ ability to keep them at bay. Blackthorne and Gresse were losing the battle to keep the Wesmen from flanking the Understone Pass defence, and Darrick had ridden into the west and disappeared. The Gods alone knew what he meant to do. Suddenly, their planned approach to Parve had turned into a headlong rush and they could already be out of time.

  “And what are your plans, my Lord?” asked Denser, still stunned that the Lord of the Mount should be in the west.

  “You know why I am here,” said Styliann. “They took Selyn and I will take their lives. You will come with me and so will Dawnthief. The Raven can return to Understone Pass. Their skills are better used in its defence.”

  The atmosphere changed in an instant. Hirad shifted to a ready stance, sword still sheathed for the moment. The Unknown moved to stand beside him, as did Thraun. Ilkar and Erienne flanked Denser as he stood in front of the mounted Styliann. Will remained with the fallen Jandyr. There was a ripple through the Protectors.

  “I'm not sure I understand,” said Denser, though an awful realisation was flooding his heart.

  Styliann raised his eyebrows. “Denser, the balance must be redressed and we must have dominion. Dawnthief must belong to Xetesk alone. Now, bring the catalysts to me or I will take them from the corpses of your friends.” He signalled, and the Protectors unsheathed their weapons, the sound slicing through the night air.

  “You can't let him do this!” hissed Ilkar.

  “He has no choice,” said Styliann. “He always knew this would be the result.”

  Denser gaped at Styliann, his head shaking slightly. “And you…?” He gestured behind him at the Temple.

  Styliann frowned. “Yes. And you did what even my Protectors could not. I'm impressed,” he said. “But now The Raven's work is done.”

  “How did you get here before us?” asked Hirad.

  “I was never very far behind you, Hirad. You chose to rest on your way here; I did not.” He shrugged. “A pity I didn't succeed. It would have made all of this so much easier.”

  “Yes,” said The Unknown. “Because we hold the cards, don't we?”

  Ilkar fell back from Denser behind The Raven. His incantation was short. “Shield up,” he murmured. The Raven's swords were drawn.

  Styliann laughed. “Do not think you can stand in my way,” he said, dismissive. “Denser, do the right thing or I'll be forced to take your life too.”

  “You wouldn't do that.” Denser moved back, Erienne with him, feeling Ilkar's shield cover him.

  “Any reason why not?”

  The Protectors came to ready. The Unknown tensed.

  “Because I represent the only realistic chance of casting Dawnthief with any hope of destroying the Wytch Lords while leaving Balaia still habitable.” But Denser's words held little conviction.

  “If you really are blind enough to think you are the only Dawnthief mage in Xetesk, I pity you,” said Styliann. “I am offering you glory. You and I will destroy the Wytch Lords and then you will stand by me on the Mount and oversee our rule of Balaia. There are two Towers in need of new Masters. Come.” He beckoned Denser forward and the Dark Mage moved an involuntary half pace before Erienne's arm, still locked through his, restrained him.

  Denser looked about him at The Raven. At Erienne, who carried his child and to whom he would suffer no harm. At Hirad, who had threatened his life twice but had saved it more often and would undoubtedly do so again, given the chance. At Ilkar, who knew the way forward and tolerated him because of it. The Unknown, who was released but still in thrall to his soul memories. And Will, Thraun and Jandyr, who believed because The Raven believed.

  But opposite him, Styliann. The Lord of the Mount of Xetesk. A man who could see him to death or glory with equal ease.

  Denser came to Hirad's shoulder, his voice a whisper. “Do you trust me?” he asked.

  Hirad regarded him carefully, Denser watching the thoughts chasing themselves across his eyes. “You're Raven,” he answered, shrugging. “You risked yourself to release The Unknown. That is the act of one of us.”

  “Give me the chain.” Hirad framed a refusal but Denser stayed him. “He can take them anyway. We can't stop him.”

  “We can't just give in.” Hirad's grip tightened on his sword.

  Denser's voice was barely audible. “No one is giving in. Trust me.”

  Hirad switched his attention to Styliann, who studied The Raven with obvious fascination. Behind him, ninety Protectors stood ready to wipe them out. He clacked his tongue and lifted the chain carrying the Understone Pass Commander's Badge and the Dordovan Ring of Authority from his neck. He heard Ilkar's sharply indrawn breath, though the shield did not waver.

  “Give Denser the stone, Will,” said Hirad. “We have nothing to gain by dying.”

  Will paused in his tending of Jandyr and passed the Death's Eye Stone to Denser. The Xeteskian smiled but, before walking to Styliann, stopped by Ilkar, his back to his Lord.

  “Whatever you do, keep that shield up.” He moved to stand in front of Styliann, hefting the catalysts.

  “And to think I have the fate of Balaia in my hands,” he said.

  “Dangerous,” said Styliann. He reached out. “Let's not waste any more time. It is a particularly precious commodity.”

  “Indeed it is,” agreed Denser, a smile on his lips. “And I will now decide Balaia's fate.”

  The mana shape was formed and the command spoken before Styliann had a chance to react. Denser, ShadowWings deployed, shot up and backward, finishing behind the Temple, high in the lee of the cliffs. Every face turned to look at him, silhouetted against the star-speckled night sky. No one breathed and Hirad's heart thumped in his chest, sweat freezing on his body. Denser s
houted down from his vantage point, well out of Styliann's spell range, ShadowWings beating lazy time.

  “I can't let you return to the old ways, Styliann. You're out of date. Dawnthief goes with The Raven. That is the contract and we will honour it or die in the attempt.”

  “You are a Xeteskian mage and you are my servant,” said Styliann, his voice cold and terrible. “You will obey me.”

  “No,” said Denser. “I am Raven.”

  Hirad's smile was as wide as Understone Pass. He straightened from his ready stance.

  “Oh dear, Styliann,” he said. “Beaten again. Why not admit it and step aside?”

  But Styliann wasn't listening. His eyes ablaze, his mind shaped mana with the speed and efficiency only a Master could command. A trio of Flame Orbs struck Ilkar's shield in successive heartbeats, blue and red light lashing over the invisible barrier. Ilkar gasped under the force of the attack, but though he trembled, the shield did not. Styliann looked on. None of The Raven had so much as flinched.

  “Ilkar has never lost a shield to magical attack,” said Hirad. “And I can assure you that he doesn't intend starting now. It's over, Styliann.”

  “I hardly think so,” grated the Lord of the Mount. He turned to his Protectors. “Kill them. Kill them now.” But the Protectors did not move. “Kill them!” he screamed, face red in the moonlight, fury blazing in his eyes. Hirad prepared to die.

  “Relax, Hirad,” said The Unknown, and the depth of his smile at last touched his eyes. “I suggest you save your breath, Styliann.”

  “I beg your pardon?” The words dragged from Styliann's mouth.

  “It's something you can never conceive, let alone understand. They will not attack us while I am here and we aren't threatening your life. And in the same way, I will not let The Raven attack them. But I warn that should I die at your hand, your Protectors will turn on you.”