'Let him get used to you before you get a hold of the bridle and then move down his flank slowly. Make sure you keep in physical contact. Only then put your foot in the stirrup. Do it slowly and calmly and should be skitter, back off and try again. I'll tell you when to be more forceful, all right?'
'Yes, General,' said the boy.
'Go on then, he won't bite.' Actually, he might, thought Darrick.
Dear Gods drowning, would he ever be able to let the boy loose on a horse not already broken in? Stupid thing was, when he was up in the saddle, the boy was a natural, which wasn't something you could say for many elves.
And it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. He had brought half a dozen horses with him from Balaia when The Raven had left the continent, all courtesy of a very generous Baron Blackthorne. His idea had always been to breed them and introduce them to the elves after a short stop on Herendeneth. The elves knew precious little about horses and, if nothing else, learning to ride could be an expensive gift for rich children.
From a business point of view, it worked very well. Blackthorne's horses were good stock and he was anticipating a third generation. They should be the calmest yet, now he didn't have to rely on the old stallion. Great horse to ride. A bugger for passing on his bad temper, though.
He watched the boy approaching the horse. It eyed him warily but made no move away. Better. The lad held out his hands and the horse obliged, nuzzling them before giving him a playful butt in the chest. The boy hesitated.
'Keep going, lad,' said Darrick. 'You're doing fine.'
He turned away at the sound of a cart rattling along the street behind him, pulled by mules. He waved at the owner, who nodded back. And that was all it took for it all to go wrong again. When he returned his attention to the paddock, the boy had his foot half in the stirrup and his hand clutched the loose rein tight.
'No,' shouted Darrick. 'You're dragging his head round. He won't . . .'
The lad tried to mount. The rest was inevitable. He gave a sharp tug on the rein, forgetting he was holding it, so much was he concentrating on the stirrup, his footing and the pommel where his other hand was planted. The stallion nickered and pulled back sharply. The boy didn't know which to let go of and in the end released the pommel not the rein and still tried to get up in the saddle.
The horse trotted a pace and unbalanced his would-be rider who fell flat on his back in the dirt with a shout of frustration.
'Give me strength,' muttered Darrick.
'You look like a man who needs a change of career,' said a voice he recognised very well indeed.
He swung round. Hirad was standing a couple of paces away. Darrick gave a shout of surprise and embraced him hard. 'Gods, Hirad, it's good to see you,' he said.
'Steady,' said Hirad, pushing him back. 'People will talk. All going well is it?'
'That depends on what you're really asking. I'm making money. I'm working with horses and other dumb animals.' He spared the boy a glance. 'Again! Bruising is good for the character. And don't think that about me. You'll thank me later.'
Hirad was laughing. 'Glad to see you've kept your cool.'
'Hirad, I have to tell you something. I am so bored.'
The barbarian's smile broadened. 'So if I was to suggest something with rather more potential for excitement what would you think?'
'I'd think you were a blessing from the Gods,' said Darrick. 'So what is it?'
He'd been ignoring the other figures spread around the paddock fence while he spoke to Hirad but now he looked more closely.
'Isn't that-?'
'Rebraal, yes. And Auum. And Thraun's around here somewhere too.'
'What's going on?' Darrick chewed his lip. Auum had sworn never to leave the forest again and his presence with his Tai was drawing attention. Hirad's smile had disappeared.
'We've got a problem. I'll explain on the way.'
'The way where?'
'Herendeneth. Listen, Darrick, do what you need to do here and I'll see you on the docks at nightfall. There's a tide and Jevin is going to be on it.'
Darrick stiffened. 'Tell me what is going on before I get more irritable.'
'You know how I said The Raven would never ride again? Seems I was lying.'
Chapter 10.
Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, though the title rang hollow now, stared out at another dawn and shed a tear as he had almost every day for the past two years. It was going to be another beautiful day. That was one of the things the demons had not taken from them though they had done their best. The air was perpetually cold and the quiet made late spring a sham. No birds sang, dogs barked or children played. There was no sound outside at all but the keening of despair on the breeze.
Like every day, he wondered at the conditions on the outside where the demons ruled practically unopposed. How much worse it must be for those kept alive out there; though much of the time he wallowed so far down in his own desperation that the possibility others could be in a deeper plight was inconceivable.
So little news came in from the outside. Less and less as the seasons turned and resistance inexorably weakened. At first it had been relatively straightforward. They had unsealed the catacomb vents and been able to get people into the countryside. In the early days, the demons had only attacked a few population centres. Food and water in the wilds had been plentiful and survivors had been brought into the security of Xetesk's ColdRoom network. They'd even driven the demons back from the walls of the college at one stage and taken back some of the city.
But the situation hadn't been sustainable. The use of magic was like a beacon to any demon and he had lost mages in sudden overwhelming attacks across the mage lands. Mages he could ill afford to lose.
Slowly, they had retreated as numbers dwindled as a result of demon attack and, ever increasingly, illness and a breaking of the spirit that left no room for life. There was only so much a healing spell could do and regaining mana stamina was fraught with danger. Xetesk had had just three small areas of the catacombs the demons had still not found where a mage could sleep outside a ColdRoom, replenish and cast. And always under the eyes of guards ready to pull them the few inches back to relative sanctuary should they be discovered.
Now, the Xeteskian sphere of influence covered just the tower complex and the catacombs north. Everything else belonged to the demons. Scouting parties still searched for food and fuel but their sorties were the stuff of nightmare. Only the knowledge of starvation kept men venturing out under the rolling ColdRooms they had perfected when all they had in plentiful supply was time. But nothing could guarantee their safety. It was genuinely incredible what men and women could achieve when there really was no other option.
At least they had water. Wells had been dug in the catacombs. And that meant they could eke out what little food they had into thin stews as well as drink their fill. They could heat their food too. Stones fired with focused Orbs or FlamePalm were more than adequate but another drain on stretched mana reserves.
Dystran looked out for as long as he could at the flitting shapes of the demons about their business in Xetesk and beyond; and at the slash in the sky that was the most hated symbol of Balaia's almost total subjugation. From irritants the size of kittens to the tentacled monstrosities they had dubbed 'enforcers', all had their purpose, all had their place. That fact of their organisation maddened him because it had become so clear that in their thousand-year association with demons, they had learned nothing about them. If only the reverse had also been true. If only.
But it was the people that he saw that depressed him. And it dragged at his soul when he caught one of them gazing up at the tower. Without spirit, without hope. Abandoned but still walking. And still building, growing, eating and sleeping. Still, he was convinced, breeding. They had to of course. There was that part of the human that denied even the most cataclysmic situation. And above that, there were the demons, seeing to it that all was done to their design.
It was the reason he came up here and shed tears every day and why all who survived looked out every day too. He had to remind himself why he still fought because in the base of the complex hope fled so easily. He knew what he was looking at down there. It was a farm.
Dystran turned from the window, weary despite the early hour. He caught sight of himself in a mirror and shuddered. Gaunt. Sunken eyes and cheeks. Skin flaking and blotched. Patchy beard and hair hacked short as pitiful defence against the lice. A quivering line for a mouth, lips pale and split. And he was one of the fitter ones. He had no choice. Soldiers and mages got the greater shares of food.
He signalled to the two soldiers who went everywhere with him.
'Let's go,' he said. He spared a glance across at Ranyl's tower, shuttered and abandoned. 'Gods be thanked that you didn't live to see this, old dog.'
'My Lord?'
'Nothing.'
They began the descent to the dome. Below them, teams of mages kept ColdRooms linked to provide best coverage of as wide an area as they could. He had seventy-eight mages, a hundred-plus soldiers and another two hundred-odd souls to protect. Pitiful.
Not far down, the sour smells of the last resistance of Xetesk hit him. Ventilation was not enough alone. They could not clean or scrub adequately, they had to bury their waste in catacomb tunnels but they could not lime it. Around four hundred people living and breathing for the most part in tight conditions because they felt there was safety in numbers. Gods burning, it was one of the few things they could cling on to.
There had to be something they'd all overlooked. Something that would give them the spark they needed to strike with purpose, not merely seek to exist another day. After two years it seemed faint hope.
A thought struck Dystran then. There had to be a reason why the demons seemed content to let them live like this. How long had it been since a concerted attack, a season or more, surely? It didn't make sense and it irked Dystran that it had never occurred to him to wonder why before now. The life force of a mage was so prized by demons. Their connection with mana made them burn bright. For a demon, comparing a mage to a non-mage was a fine Blackthorne red wine as compared with vinegar.
Yet every day, they must know they risked mages dying. It could be that they were not as numerous as he assumed but he wasn't sure that would make enough of a difference. Gods drowning, but they no longer even sacrificed city people in front of them to make them surrender.
Something in the demons' plans meant that keeping all the college cores where they were, helpless but alive, was the right way to go. It was a change in strategy from the constant attacks of seasons gone by. Now it was like they were waiting. But for what?
There had to be information and knowledge buried somewhere.
'Where are Suarav and Chandyr? Where's Sharyr?'
'All in the banqueting hall, my Lord.' A sad irony at breakfast time.
'Good. Take me there.'
It was time for another raid on the library.
Pheone took her shift like they all did. And every moment outside the college grounds was terrifying. It tore at her gut and tripped up her heartbeat. It gnawed at her belief and concentration. The knowledge of what she was doing was what kept her focused. It was the only thing that could.
She slipped out of the tunnel entrance and into the heart of the city. It was a tunnel they had dug without the aid of magic and because they would otherwise starve, so tight was the ring of demons around them. She had ordered another dug too. One day, the demons would find this one. They found everything eventually.
And to think that Julatsa should consider itself fortunate. When the demons had flooded Balaia, they had been given warning. A panicked Communion from a Dordovan mage had been picked up by Pheone's spectrum analysts. It had been cut off abruptly but had brought them precious hours to prepare. Mages had been called back into the college grounds. The grain store was cleared and the contents moved. City guardsmen were invited to leave their perimeters and beats. Livestock had been driven into the courtyard.
It was a time when Pheone had found her heart to be unyielding. They had assessed quickly how many souls they could shelter and had taken them from the streets. Whole families where they could. Smiths, builders and healers too. No sentimentality. It was only about survival.
They had plotted the ColdRoom coverage, ensuring wells and stores were well protected, and had withdrawn everyone they wanted behind the repaired college gates. The council had pleaded with her to let them in as panic had gripped the city riding on rumour and hearsay. The mayor had promised them the wealth of Julatsa for personal salvation. They had threatened to storm the gates but they didn't have the strength. Julatsa's mages were backed by Al-Arynaar swords, bows and magic.
She would for ever recall the last words she spoke to the mayor before the gates were sealed with WardLocks.
'Your money means nothing as does your word. Much as the life of every elf and mage in this college meant nothing to you when Xetesk invaded. Where was your loyalty then? We asked for your help. You refused. Reap what you sow.'
And thus she had condemned him to a life of servitude or, if he was lucky, a quick death. She felt no pity for him or his council of cowards. But for those innocents they could not take, she had wept hard. For them, the curse of magic had surely struck its final and most devastating blow and unleashed on them an enemy they could not combat.
Mages were their only hope but mages across Balaia were struggling merely to survive; those that were left. It was a cruel irony that Julatsa, once just hours from extinction was, a few days later given the information she had gleaned, surely the most powerful college.
Julatsa boasted almost one hundred and eighty mages, Al-Arynaar and current Julatsans, and almost two hundred of the elven warriors had also still been in the college when the demons attacked. They were still so strong in mind and body. Truly amazing people. So determined, so resolute. They kept the college going through the earliest and darkest days. They hunted, they fought and they survived. It simply did not occur to them that they might be beaten.
The demons were wary of them too, which was the one ray of real hope they could work on. Elven souls couldn't be taken by mere touch. Dila'heth said their god of the dead, Shorth, protected them.
Whatever it was, it meant that the elves chose to travel without ColdRoom spells when they foraged. And humans like Pheone simply had to trust them when it was their turn to provide mage back-up. She knew how effective they were but their tactics still couldn't assuage her base fear.
There were six elves with her. Five warriors and one mage, all whispering through the silent street towards the immaculate and high-yielding farm land that had been created on the city's borders. At one time they had developed a conscience about stealing this food. But when the reprisals for doing so had ceased and it became clear that they were as good as being catered for, that guilt ebbed quickly away.
The paradox of course was that demons still guarded the farm land. They were happy to exact revenge for attempted theft if they could while apparently conceding the necessity for over-supply because theft was often successful. And for their part, the elves were happy to take them on if the need arose.
'We all have our demons,' Dila'heth had said. 'But you have named yours and they are real as well as being that dark part of the psyche we all harbour. Of course they have power over you. They are your nemesis. It is not so with the elves. Our association was never so close. Never myth made real.
'For you they are the descent. Everything your mothers and your priests warned you about. For us they are a powerful adversary but in the end just an alternate race. They have a place in our legends but that is because they threaten Shorth's children, not the living.'
'You're saying the reason we're vulnerable is a difference in perspective? ' she'd asked.
'State of mind and belief are powerful. The touch of a demon can kill you. It cannot kill us unless our will is broken. Shorth protects us but our souls are bonded into our faith and our race. It makes us strong. You are individuals so you are vulnerable.
'Humans have never really understood what binds a people. It is a shame for you that the demons do.'
Creeping through gently waving stalks of spring crops, it was hard to disagree with her. The elves had an intuitive understanding of each other. They barely needed to speak or gesture. But she remained ultimately unconvinced of Dila's reasoning. She, like all elves, held her faith up as the reason for every circumstance. Pheone considered their greater resistance to a demon's touch was their innate link to mana.
Ahead of her, the elves had stopped moving. Lost in her thoughts, Pheone almost stumbled into the warrior in front of her. He turned and placed a finger on his lips, then pointed to his eyes and out across the fields to the livestock barns. Darkened for camouflage, shapes moved against the walls. Demons. Dila'heth had made it seem such a dramatic name but it was what they were. To humans at least.
The raiding party crouched low in the field, out of sight unless they were overflown.
'They are few,' said Kineen, the leader of the group. 'It is a chance.'
'A chance for what?' whispered Pheone.
'To take breeding pairs,' said Kineen. 'We need more livestock.'
Pheone paused, hearing the leaves wave about her head. Ahead, a cow lowed.
'Couldn't we have had this discussion before we left?' she asked.
'To what purpose? There could be no decision until now. We know you will support us.'
'You want to steal livestock?' A nod. 'And drive them back down the tunnel without killing them and without the demons finding the entrance?'
Kineen managed a brief smile. 'The animals will not be conscious for the way back. We will deal with that. Four demons are circling the barn. We need to take them all together but we won't have much time between casting and more arriving. You will have to be quick.'
Pheone blew out her cheeks. Her heart was crashing in her chest and sweat was beading at her hairline. She felt a shiver in her limbs. She only hoped that when the time came, she could muster up the concentration to cast.
'Just tell me what you want me to cast.'
Another smile from Kineen. 'Good. And Pheone. Run when we tell you and don't look back.'
The five warriors fanned out into the field, keeping below the line of the crop. Pheone and the other mage, Afen'erei, moved in behind them. Neither prepared yet. The mana spectrum had to be kept quiet until the last possible moment. After a few yards, the two archers split off left, increasing their pace, hurrying for one end of the barn.
Pheone could just about make out the demons now. Four of them, a little smaller than man-size with wings and tails. Their vein-run skin writhed. Every inch the archetypal figures of nightmare. It was the shape most had adopted on arrival in Julatsa. She presumed they found it easier to control their human flock that way.
'Hit them when they clear the barn to your right,' said Afen'erei.
'Got you.'
'IceWind and DeathHail are best. Something quick to cast.'
Pheone nodded. She'd have preferred to crush them with a ForceCone but they couldn't risk the barn collapsing under the pressure.
The three sword elves were running now, feet silent over the ground. They broke cover at the instant the first arrows struck the demons, deflecting their attention. The fact that the shafts couldn't kill didn't stop wounds hurting and the demons wailed in pain, shaft after shaft thudding home. They had not gathered themselves to attack before the warriors were on them.