'It's easy to be pessimistic,' replied Blackthorne. 'Just look at the mess they've made of this beautiful port.'
The two men straightened and looked down the hill towards the Southern Ocean. The whole port was laid out before them in the mid-afternoon light. Smoke from a dozen extinguished fires spiralled slowly into the sky. The main street, at the top of which they stood, now led through a scene of devastation. Much of the fighting had been concentrated on its sloped cobbles and all the buildings; inns, houses, bakers', armourers', shipwright offices and the premises of a dozen other trades lay in ruins.
To the left and right, the path of the street-to-street, house-to-house fighting was drawn in blood and ash. Funeral pyres were alight everywhere they looked and it was not until the eye travelled down towards the dockside piles, cranes, jetties and warehouses, that the port regained some semblance of its recognised shape. Out in the harbour, the masts of three or four tall ships jutted from the low tide water but the Gyernath blockade had frustrated every attempt of the Wesmen, not natural sailors, to break through.
But the eight days of fighting had left thousands homeless and as many orphaned or widowed. The army and city guard, those who could still walk, threw the remainder of their energies into salvaging what they could from the wreckage of the port and making as much of it as habitable as possible. All too often since Blackthorne and Gresse had arrived though, it was the sound of the unsafe timbers being dragged to the ground that drowned out the sound of new timbers being nailed over cracks in roofs and walls. Gyernath's glory was gone.
A man was striding up the slope of Drovers' Way, the main street, towards them. He was tall, middle-aged and dressed in robes of state. The mayor's emblem hung around his neck and he was clutching a roll of parchment.
'I'd say welcome, Blackthorne, but there's precious little of my town left for that,' he said. Blackthorne shook the man's hand.
'But more than I can currently offer you at my own,' replied the Baron. 'Mayor Scalier, may I introduce my friend, Baron Gresse.' The two men shook.
'I have heard of your efforts,' said Scalier. 'It is rare to find a man of your honour wearing Baronial colours these days. Present company excepted, naturally.'
'Rarer still to find a victorious Eastern Balaian. I congratulate you on your triumph.'
Scalier's smile faded a little and his long lined face took on a sadder aspect below the wisps of grey hair that blew about his head.
'If it can be described as such. We cannot sustain another such attack; we will be driven into the sea. And as I look down on the ruins, I wonder whether that might not be a blessing.'
'I understand your feelings, Scalier, as perhaps no one else can. But you know that my request for soldiers and mages is aimed at finishing the threat of such an attack.' Blackthorne rubbed at his beard. 'I presume that parchment is your decision.'
'Yes. I am sorry it has taken this long to deliver our answer; your messenger was most insistent about its urgency, but you can see we have had one or two other matters to attend to.' He handed over the parchment which Blackthorne unrolled quickly, his heart beating proud in his chest as he scanned the numbers it contained. His face cracked into a huge but short-lived smile.
'You cannot afford this many men and mages. You have to maintain some defence.' He passed the parchment to Gresse whose breath hissed in through his teeth. Scalier clapped his hands together.
'What for? Just look around you. The Wesmen must be stopped and you can stop them if you take the rest of Gyernath's army and its mages with you. We will position scouts and beacon fires on every route from the port. Should the Wesmen attack us again, we will have advance warning and evacuate to sea. You will command the forces of Gyernath and may the Gods bless you in your fight.'
Blackthorne grabbed Scalier and hugged him, slapping his back until the older man coughed.
'What you have done gives Balaia a chance,' he said. 'Once Blackthorne is retaken and the camps either side of the Bay of Gyernath are destroyed, we will march back north and fight at Understone. And this time, we will have victory as a true goal. Then,' he turned to Gresse. 'Then will come the reckoning.'
'How soon can these men be ready?' asked Gresse.
'It will take a while to provision the ships and I should think the same time for you to formulate your plans with my Captains, not to mention allowing time for rest. There is a tide that will stream out in the early hours in two days' time. You should be on it.' Blackthorne nodded.
'Come, let us find an inn that is standing and drink to Gyernath and the whole of Balaia.' He led the way down Drovers' Way, his head high, his mood ecstatic. There would be a victory at Blackthorne. His men, together with eight thousand from Gyernath, would sweep the Wesmen back across the Bay and into their homelands to lick their wounds. He hoped enough lived to curse their folly and to resolve never to challenge Baron Blackthorne again.
Chapter 18.
Thraun felt it first, though Hirad didn't know it until later. Denser was still in Communion, face drawn into a deep frown, lips moving soundlessly, Erienne stroking his hair.
To the rest of The Raven, nothing was out of the ordinary, but the wolf picked up his head and made a soft noise in his throat which became a whine. He shook his powerful muzzle and stood up, sniffing the air, hackles rising, a slight quiver apparent in his forelegs.
He backed away from the stove, ignoring Will's calming hand and voice, looking left across the river and right into the brush that secluded them from unwelcome eyes. The whine continued from deep in the centre of his forehead then shut off abruptly. He locked eyes with Hirad and the barbarian would have laughed, swearing the wolf was actually frowning in worry, had not the pain seared into his skull.
He cried out, clutching his head in both hands, making to rise but falling back, first to his haunches, then flat prone his legs thrashing, facial muscles horribly twisting his expression. Dimly, he heard Ilkar's voice and felt other hands grabbing at him, trying to still his body as it heaved and tremored.
It was like nothing he had ever experienced. As if his brain was being squashed against the inside of his head by spiked mallets while, at the same time, squeezed to the size of an apple by a monstrous hand. He saw flashes of red and gold light before his eyes though the rest of the world was dark, and in his ears the sound of a thousand pairs of wings beat on his eardrums. His nose, he thought in a queer moment of total clarity, was bleeding.
The agony had a voice. Hirad heard it echo at first, unsure whether it was another trick of the pain. It came to him on a hurricane of whispers just out of reach, sliding past his numbed mind then grabbing a hold. He wanted to open his eyes but could not. His limbs too, were leaden and immobile.
This is death, he thought.
'No, Hirad Coldheart, not death.' It was a voice he knew well and though it came to him from out of his nightmares, it brought strange comfort. 'I am sorry for the inevitable unpleasantness. First contact over such a distance is difficult but it will ease. I will teach you.'
'Sha-Kaan?' Hirad was aware his mouth was moving but his confusion of thoughts found a focal point in his bruised brain, allowing him to communicate.
'Excellent. There is no damage.'
'It doesn't feel that way and unpleasantness is hardly the word I would choose to describe what you have just caused.'
Sha-Kaan chuckled, a gentle feeling which stroked Hirad's aching mind.
'You have the same fearlessness I found in Septern,' he said. 'It is a shame you are not a mage.'
'Why?'
'Because it would make our binding all the more powerful and complete.'
'What binding?' Hirad felt a flicker of worry. It hadn't occurred why Sha-Kaan had chosen to contact him. He hadn't even conceived the possibility unless the dragon was in Balaia. The fact that he was apparently speaking from great distance was a cause for concern.
'There is something I must ask you to do that will help my Brood to survive. I am old, even by the standards of the Kaan, yet I have had no Dragonene since the death of Seran at Taranspike Castle. You are the only human with the strength of mind to answer my calls. I may have need of you in the time before you travel to my domain.'
Hirad was stunned. He also felt a sense of overwhelming honour but curiously didn't know why he should. He had precious little knowledge of the Dragonene save that all were mages.
'But what can I do? I cannot cast a spell. Why me?'
'There are others of The Raven to channel the energies of interdimensional space and to provide for my wounds and damages. But yours is a mind that burns bright for me as those of your friends do not. Even were I sorely wounded, I could find you and reach sanctuary. I ask that you agree. I will teach you what you need to know.'
'And can I call on you?'
'Should you need to, but I could not swear to answer you immediately, nor to be able to give you the help you desire, though I would expect nothing less from you.'
'But what if I'm in the middle of battle?' Hirad could imagine the pain felling him as surely as an enemy axe in the midst of melee. He could not allow that. The Raven were too important.
'If your mind is open as it should be, I could detect whether you were at rest before contacting you.'
'Then I accept,' said Hirad before he knew quite what he was saying.
'Excellent. Now tell me, how goes your search for a means to close the gateway?'
Hirad quickly outlined his understanding of the DemonShroud, which was limited, and the distance they had to travel to Julatsa, which was far more complete.
'I must know more about this Shroud. Is it pandimensional?'
'I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,' said Hirad. 'All I know is that nothing living can pass through it, that it stretches as high as heaven and as low as hell and all who attempt to cross it lose their souls to the demons.'
Sha-Kaan was quiet for a moment but Hirad felt his presence, and his worry, no less keenly. He had a moment to reflect on the enormity of what he had done and found himself unperturbed by it. There was one thing, though.
'Why did you choose me now?' he asked.
'Because I must attempt tasks that will provoke attack and damage. I must have a Dragonene. Now to this Shroud. Let me investigate. Your mages have dabbled again in something they do not fully understand or can control. I will contact the Brood and probe the space around the city you head for. There may be a way to get through. Be ready for my contact tomorrow as your sun passes its highest.'
'I will.'
'Thank you, Hirad Coldheart. You have taken a solemn oath but you are not alone. There are Dragonene everywhere there are mages. Until tomorrow.'
And then he was gone and Hirad realised he had no idea how to contact the Great Kaan himself. He opened his eyes.
'Gods in the ground, Hirad, what the hell happened to you?' Ilkar's face loomed over his, colour returning to his cheeks, frown relaxing.
Hirad smiled, his head encased in sponge, his eyesight not quite sharp and the ache of Sha-Kaan's presence a reminder it had not all been a dream. He was lying flat on his back, a cloak pillowing his head. A female hand reached across with a rag and wiped what had to be blood from his nose.
'How long have I been out?'
'A couple of minutes,' said The Unknown.
'Maybe less,' added Ilkar. There was a low growl. Thraun's muzzle appeared suddenly in his vision, the wolf's yellow eyes searching his, heavy furred brows forced together, an almost comical frown rippling the skin above them. Apparently satisfied, his tongue whipped out to lick Hirad's cheek then he moved away.
'He's happy anyway,' said Hirad.
'Yes, but he wasn't. Not happy at all,' said The Unknown.
'Do you mind if I sit up?' asked Hirad. They helped him to a sitting position. Denser sat cross-legged away from the group, his pipe newly lit, smoking into the afternoon sky. He wore a deeply troubled expression. Will stood nearby, stroking Thraun's flank. Ilkar, The Unknown and Erienne crowded him, Ilkar handing him a mug of coffee.
'You dropped your last one,' he said.
'I don't remember.' He was feeling more human now, the pulp encasing his brain fading, his thoughts sharper, as was his sight.
'So what happened?' asked Ilkar again.
'It was Sha-Kaan; he spoke to me, from his own lands. From Wingspread.'
'From where?' The Unknown leaned back on his haunches. Hirad shrugged. He had no idea where the word came from. Sha-Kaan had not used it.
'Wingspread. Sha-Kaan's place, I suppose.' Hirad scanned the faces of Ilkar and The Unknown. The former was thoughtful, the latter worried.
'I presume it wasn't good news,' said Ilkar. 'I mean, why is he contacting you?'
'How, is more pertinent,' added The Unknown. 'Look at you. You're paler than a two-day corpse.'
'Thanks,' said Hirad. 'Look. I'm not sure what the news was but he's worried about getting hurt and needs a new Dragonene. Me, to be exact.'
'What?' chorused the trio of mages.
'Yeah, that's what I said. But apparently I can be the contact and you three can do whatever he needs you to do. He picked me because he's familiar with my mind. It's very strong, he said.' Hirad sat up a little straighter.
Ilkar chuckled. 'Well, your head's thick enough anyway.'
'You didn't agree, did you?' asked Denser. It was more of a statement than a question.
Hirad raised an eyebrow. 'Well, yes, of course. I had to.'
'Thanks very much,' snapped the Xeteskian.
'What's your problem?' Hirad felt the pricklings of anger. 'Did I really have a choice?'
'Yes, you did. You could have said no. Suppose I don't want to be a Dragonene?'
'You aren't, Xetesk man, I am. You're a . . . I don't know, you're a consort or something.' It was the wrong word and Hirad knew it. He only half-regretted saying it. Denser rose.
'You have got to be bloody joking, Hirad. If you think I'm going to agree to be a "consort" ' - he ejected the word like a mouthful of rotten fruit - 'you can stick it straight up your arse.'
'Denser, sit down now and lower your voice,' ordered The Unknown, making the ghost of a move when the mage threatened to speak again. 'Your noise will bring the entire Wesmen nation down on our necks. All our noise for that matter. We are The Raven. Let's try and remember that once in a while.'
'You weren't there,' said Hirad.
'Hirad,' warned The Unknown.
'No, hear me out.' He lowered his voice. 'I could feel the waves of need in Sha-Kaan. He needs me, us, as much as we'll need him. And in case you'd forgotten, Denser, if he and the Kaan die, so do we all. It is our duty to help protect him. And for that, I need your help. There was no time to consult you. I did what I had to do. What was right in here.' He tapped his chest.
Denser took his place by the fire, exchanging sharp glances with Erienne.
'Well, you're right about the time thing anyway.'
The Raven looked at him with virgin interest. His Communion had been forgotten.
Ilkar cleared his throat. 'I ask this with all due dread, but why?'
'Because we've only got eight days to close the rip.'
Darrick's heart was soaring. Eight days of exhilarating riding had brought the cavalry to within striking distance of the Bay of Gyernath staging post. His scouts reported a small force of Wesmen warriors and workers, perhaps as few as one hundred and fifty, and an intermittent stream of traffic moving in from the Heartlands trail which ran away to the west and the Southern Force, the river which ran from the Garan Mountains to the sea and guarded the eastern edge of the Wesmen's ancestral home.
It had been a ride of power and discipline, hard paced by day, resting by night. He knew the horses hadn't much left but journey's end was in sight and the destruction of the staging post would herald a short sea journey and perhaps a day's rest.
The four-College cavalry, one hundred and ninety swordsmen and archers and eighteen mages, was gathered an hour's ride from the bayside encampment. The plans were laid. The most potent risk was from three watch-towers manned by three warriors each and to these Darrick detailed his full contingent of fourteen archers and enough mage support to provide HardShields. He would have preferred to launch a magical attack but the spells he needed were very hard to prepare and cast at a gallop. The main body of the camp, large store tents surrounded in a loose circle by billet canvas, was ripe for a cavalry charge with mage-fired torches as the first attack volley.
Darrick, at the head of the cavalry astride his mount, gave his final address as the late afternoon sun began to wane.
'These people have invaded our lands and killed our people. You all know some of those who have already died. All those lost in the defence of Understone Pass, all those lost so far in the siege of Julatsa. The Gods only can know the state of Blackthorne, Gyernath and Arlen. Erskan, Denebre and Eimot.