The Wesmen had launched arrows, they had made dummy charges and they had taunted, denouncing the courage of the Easterners. But the four-College cavalry, with Blackthorne and Gresse at its head, had faced them down, knowing they could wheel and outdistance their enemy at any given moment.
Eventually, as Blackthorne had guessed, the Wesman commander's curiosity had got the better of him and, under the red and white Wesmen flag of truce, he had come forward alone. Blackthorne and Gresse had ridden out to meet him. The conversation had been short.
'I am Adesellere. I would have your names.'
'Blackthorne and Gresse, Barons,' Blackthorne had replied.
'Where are the rest of your forces?' Only then had Gresse worked out Blackthorne's theory and why the Wesmen hadn't simply charged in, putting the cavalry to flight.
'Well now,' Blackthorne had said, his tribal Wes all but faultless. 'It is possible that they are dispersed around this camp, waiting to strike at you as you advance. Alternatively, they may have marched from here in the dead of night, north across the crags to fight your army at Septern Manse.
'You can find this out by advancing in here and you know we will ride out of your way. But then you might die. Or, you can march towards the Manse. You should be there before dark. Which is it to be? I know which I'd choose.'
Behind them, tent flaps snapped in the breeze. The rain still fell. Adesellere had looked past him to the rows of tents. All silent but all potentially containing sudden death.
'You will not halt the march of the Wesmen forever,' Adesellere had said. And he had turned and led his warriors from the battlefield.
Half an hour later, Blackthorne and the cavalry still sat on horseback. The odd scout had ridden out, reporting back that the Wesmen were indeed marching east at a healthy pace.
'Well, my friends,' said Blackthorne. 'I think it's time we went to collect our wounded. They would be so much more comfortable here.'
He wheeled his horse, the cavalry following suit. It was then the cries went up. Forging towards them, three shapes came out of the shadow of the sky over the Blackthorne Mountains, travelling at extraordinary pace. Gresse thought to turn to ask an elf but it was clear to them all what was coming.
'Dismount! Dismount!' The Captain roared as the horses, sensing new and awful danger, began to stamp or buck. The order was obeyed immediately and the horses, once free of human control, took flight, scattering in the face of the threat from above.
'Dear Gods,' said Gresse, a painful lump in his throat, his heart beating wildly. He was sweating. The backs of his hands, his forehead, his back and his breath stuttered in his lungs. He couldn't move and beside him Blackthorne didn't either.
The dragons closed, the gold of their bodies sparkling in the muted rainswept sky. Lower they came, and lower, and one emitted a piercing bark as they raced overhead, swooping by. Gresse spun around, almost losing his footing. He could have sworn he heard laughter as they passed.
He shuddered as they disappeared behind the hill line and turned back to Blackthorne. The Baron's smile split his face and he clapped a trembling hand on Gresse's shoulder.
'What is it?'
'Didn't you see them?' he asked, pointing after the dragons.
'See them? I could hardly bloody miss them. I almost filled my trousers.'
'No.' And Blackthorne began to laugh. 'Riding them. Oh my dear Gresse, we've done it. That was The Raven.'
'You're . . .' Gresse looked again. The dragons had disappeared. Relief flooded him.
'My Lords?' It was the cavalry Captain. His helm was off and his face pale beneath it. He held a small, ornate presentation case in his hands.
'Yes, Captain,' said Blackthorne.
'I thought perhaps we could all do with some of this.' He opened the case to reveal a small bottle of Blackthorne grape spirit and four shot glasses. 'I've been keeping it. For a special occasion. I think this qualifies.'
'My dear boy,' said Gresse, his mind singing, his head light as if he'd imbibed a good deal already. 'You have made an ageing man very happy.'
Hirad could see the opposing armies but he couldn't see the ruins of the Manse. Sha-Kaan arrowed down, sending one more chill of fear through Hirad as he felt himself slide just that little bit further down the neck than was good for his heart. He could see where the Great Kaan was going to land and so could those on the ground. He cheered as men scattered, hearing terrified cries and hapless orders for calm float up on the wind as they closed.
Sha-Kaan lifted his neck, angled his body and thumped his legs down. Hirad immediately snatched a dagger from his belt and cut at his ropes, suddenly desperate to feel the grass beneath his feet, slicked with blood though it may be. The Great Kaan lowered his neck and Hirad slid off, his legs failing to hold his weight. Immediately, arms were about his shoulders, helping him to his feet, every muscle in thigh and calf screaming for rest.
He turned around and came face to face with Darrick. He smiled and the two men hugged, Hirad thumping the other's back.
'Still alive then?' he said as they separated.
'Still alive,' agreed Darrick. 'Listen, celebrations later. For now, there's a Wesmen army just the other side of this dragon.'
Hirad laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. 'Sorry,' he said, wiping his eyes. 'What a choice of phrase.' He steadied himself. 'Look, the war's over. You need to negotiate Wesmen withdrawal from east of the Blackthorne Mountains. If they don't want to play, I can arrange a demonstration, if you get my meaning.'
Darrick smiled and clapped him on the shoulders. 'I'll see what I can do.' He strode off to meet the Wesmen.
Hirad ambled to Sha-Kaan's head where the rest of The Raven had gathered to watch Darrick talk to Tessaya. He laid a hand on the dragon's head.
'Thank you, Great Kaan.'
The old dragon opened one eye and fixed him with a myopic stare. 'You have saved the Kaan, you and your Raven. It is I who should be thanking you.'
'So why the sadness? You don't sound at all happy.'
'We have lost the Manse and that is a great loss to us for it contained a gateway and that gateway, like the one in your sky, has gone. I am unsure where to look for more.'
'I don't think I understand,' said Hirad.
'He's saying he thinks they're stuck here,' said Erienne. 'At least for now.'
'But you can get them home, can't you?' asked Hirad. 'Soon?' His eyes took in all three mages. Their heads shook.
'I don't know,' said Ilkar.
Hirad faced Sha-Kaan once again. 'You knew this might happen, didn't you? That's why you came here, to see if Septern's rip still worked?'
'Of course,' said Sha-Kaan. 'But what are the lives of three dragons in the cause of a Brood. It was a small sacrifice.'
Hirad was lost for words. 'We'll get you back. Somehow.' He smiled. 'After all, we are The Raven.'
'Does your conceit know no end?' asked Denser, his eyes shining.
'No,' said Hirad. He took it all in. Darrick talking to Tessaya, the Wesman Lord nodding, his eyes fixed on the trio of Kaan that rested in front of him. The Unknown, shaking hands with every surviving Protector. Denser and Erienne in each other's arms, their faces alight, their eyes speaking love. Sha-Kaan, his head up and surveying his new home, his bright blue eyes missing nothing, his thoughts dominated by triumph, sadness and great hope. And Ilkar, arms folded, smiling to himself and shaking his head at the thought of it all.
They had done it. The Raven. Again. He conceded it was hard to take in.
Only Thraun was missing. The big blond warrior had disappeared almost immediately they had landed, slipping off the dragon and moving soundlessly away. He needed to be alone. Hirad understood that. He'd make himself known when he was ready.
A shout of alarm rang from the Balaian army. Fingers pointed back towards the demolished Wesmen camp. Hirad followed their line.
'Leave him,' he ordered. 'He'll not harm you.'
Thraun loped up to Hirad, who crouched in front of him and stroked his head.
'Wouldn't have done that if you were in human form,' he said. A sad smile touched his lips. 'Oh, Thraun, what the hell have you done?'
The wolf regarded him solemnly, his yellow-flecked eyes moist. He sniffed the air and growled, a friendly sound that went right through Hirad. For a moment, he thought he might cry.
'I don't know if you can understand me, Thraun, but remember this,' he said, his voice thick, the rest of the world gone for a moment as he stared at the shapechanger. 'You will always be Raven. And we will always remember you. Good luck, both now and in whatever faces you. May your soul find peace.' He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Ilkar. The hand squeezed but the elf said nothing.
Thraun stepped forward, licked Hirad's face, turned and trotted away.
Support, help and encouragement are so important and thank you to all those who gave them so unstintingly. But there are some I should mention in person: Tara Falk who keeps me going; Peter Robinson, John Cross, Dave Mutton and Dick Whichelow for being there any time; Paul Fawcett and Lisa Edney for tolerance and patience above and beyond the call of duty; William Holley who sent me my first piece of 'fan mail'; and Simon Spanton whose sympathetic editing improves everything I write. It wouldn't be any fun without you all.
I thank you all.
Nightchild.
This book is dedicated to the memory of Stuart Bartlett.
A truly great friend to me, wonderful husband to Viv
and father to Tim, Emma, Claire and Nick.
We all miss you Stuart, so this one's for you.
Cast List.
When the Innocent rides the elements, and the land lies flat and riven.
the Sundering shall be undone and from the chaos shall rise the One, never again to fall.
Tinjata, High Elder Mage, Dordover.
Prologue.
Jarrin had fished the waters north of Sunara's Teeth all of his long life. He knew the intricacies of the tides and the petulance of the wind. And he knew the beauty of solitude. His lines and pots were dropped in a sheltered deep-water cove and now was the wonderful wait. It was the time he loved. He lay back along the boards of his eighteen-foot coastal skimmer, its single sail furled against the boom, as it rocked gently in the slight swell.
Jarrin uncorked his water and wine, then chose a thick ham sandwich from his daysack, laying it all on the bench by him as he stared at the glorious, cloud-veined blue sky. On a day like today, no life was better.
He must have dozed off for a while because he awoke with a start, felt the boat shifting strangely beneath him and saw the sun had moved a little to his left. Something was upsetting the perfection of the day and a distant roaring noise irritated his ears.
Jarrin pushed himself up onto his elbows, bent his head and dug a finger into his left ear. He couldn't hear a single bird. Over the years he'd become so accustomed to the harsh calls of gulls circling overhead or following his boat after a good day that they'd become part of the background. Now their silence was unnerving. Animals could sense things.
And now he was fully awake, nothing was quite right. The sky above was beautiful but the air felt like rain was coming. The water below the boat dragged him out to sea though the tide was surely coming in. And that roaring sound seemed to echo off the peaks of Sunara's Teeth, filling the air with an unearthly sound that scared him deep in the pit of his stomach.
Frowning, he sat up above the gunwale, his gaze caught by movement out to sea. He froze.
Approaching impossibly fast was a wall of water, behind which a dark cloud-mass blew and thickened. It stretched out of his vision to either side of the cove, a towering blue-grey mountain, white-flecked and awesome.
Jarrin just carried on looking. He could have tried to haul up his anchor, raise the sail and run for the shore but it would have been a futile gesture. The wave had to be over one hundred feet high and left no hiding place, just death against the rocky coast.
Jarrin had always sworn he would stare into the face of his killer so he stood up, sang a prayer to the Spirit for his safe passage to the ancestral haven and drank in the magnificent power of nature before it dashed him to oblivion.
Chapter 1.
The covered carriage rattled along the western edge of Thornewood, heading in the direction of Varhawk Crags on a rutted and overgrown trail. Wheels bounced off stone, wood protested and metal bolts screeched in their stays. The driver urged his pair of horses on, snapping the reins and shouting his encouragement as they dragged their unstable load at a speed that could only have one outcome.
But not just yet.
With every bump in the trail thudding through his lower back, the driver turned to look over his shoulder. Through the cloud of dust the carriage threw up, he could see them closing. Six figures on horseback, eating up the distance, their pace unimpeded by ground that played havoc with wheels.
He'd seen them closing over half the day, his sharp eyes picking them out almost as soon as they had spotted him and begun the chase. At first, he hadn't had to gallop but, as the afternoon had worn on, it had become clear that his pursuers would ride their horses to death to catch him. He wasn't surprised. What they believed to be inside the carriage was worth the lives of far more than a few mares.
He smiled, turned back to the trail and snapped the reins again. Above him, a fine day was clouding as dusk approached and already the light was beginning to fade. He scratched his chin and stared down at his horses. Sweat poured from their flanks and foamed beneath leather straps. Heads bounced as they drove on, eyes wide and ears flat.
'Well done,' he said. They had given him all the time he needed.
He glanced back again. They were within a hundred yards. A thud signalled the first arrow to strike the carriage. He breathed deep; it had to be now.
Keeping low, he dropped the reins and launched himself on to the back of the right-hand horse, feeling the heat through his hands and legs, hearing their exertion.