'Should we not rescind the Act of Giving for this Protector?'
'What? And give up our spy in the camp? I think not, Ranyl. He may be powerful muscle but he's only one man.'
'You should know that Denser swore to hunt Yron down,' said Ranyl.
'Did he? Well, that may answer some of our questions about what they know now, if not why they were there in the first place.' Dystran thought a moment. This was an unexpected and potentially serious irritation. 'They mustn't be allowed to get their information, whatever it is, into the hands of anyone friendly towards the elves. And that means Heryst and Lystern. Presumably they're after Yron.
'Come up with a plan. We need safe passage for Yron, Erys and the research team from Herendeneth. It may be necessary to clear a path. But that's not all. The Raven are a risk I'm not prepared to take. I want them caught or killed.'
A black cat trotted smoothly into the dining room and leapt onto Ranyl's shoulder, where it turned to face Dystran before morphing into the demon form of the old man's Familiar. Dystran screwed up his face.
'I can't understand why you are determined to keep that thing,' he said. 'How long have you had it now? Must be decades.'
'Friend,' corrected the Familiar, stroking Ranyl's face.
The old man smiled. 'He's right. And, more than ever, I need companionship. Dying is a lonely business.'
Dystran shuddered. 'Not me. Think I'll stick to women. Gods, why do they have to be so ugly?'
He took in the monkey-sized winged and hairless body, the pulsating veined head and the tongue which hung from its fanged mouth, dribbling spit onto Ranyl's collar.
'It can prove useful for the uninitiated victim,' said Ranyl.
'I'd keep it as a cat if I were you,' said the Lord of the Mount.
'But the cat can't talk. And the cat can't fly.'
'They are of little real use though, talking pet apart.'
'Not so, my Lord,' protested Ranyl. 'Indeed, I am encouraging more of our mages to adopt them now we have some limited linkage back with the demon dimension. They are useful as spies, and unless you know how are particularly difficult to kill.'
'Perhaps you should send them after The Raven then, prove to me they are worth the revolting body and endless drool.'
'Perhaps I will.' It was early evening seven days after Selik's brief and predictable meeting with Blackthorne and Gresse. He had brought his men to a stop half an hour's walk from the garrison at Understone. He wanted them to rest because in the early hours of the morning they had to be at their ruthless best.
They lit a fire in a shaded copse, knowing the light would not be seen in Understone, and ate very well from a deer one of his archers brought down with an astonishing shot as they rode into their temporary campsite. As he watched them eat and talk, even share the odd snatch of song, Selik knew they felt it. This was the march of the righteous. No one could stand before the Gods and stand in their way.
'Rest!' ordered Selik, once the carcass was stripped. 'Sleep if you can; we have justice to serve.'
There was no complaint. They knew he was right. Come the end of the night some of them would be dead but a blow would have been struck. The first of many. While they slept, Selik watched and reflected. He had little need for rest these days, his mind churning endlessly with thoughts of duty and destiny.
When it was time to wake his men, Selik did so feeling like a father waking reluctant children. He served them hot tea himself, feeling closer to them than at any time and starkly responsible for what he was about to begin. For a moment these twenty men with dreams of their own – who wanted life, had wives and children – were more than just pawns to him. They were people he should nurture and protect. Just for a moment.
The walk was made in total silence. All the talking had been done. In the blank dark of early morning, deepened further by the looming shapes of the Blackthorne Mountains at their backs, the Black Wings took up their positions. It had been relatively simple. Anders, the garrison commander, posted no guards outside the compound, having long since abandoned the ghost town to its ethereal residents. This mistake allowed the Black Wings to lay their trap and, when they were ready, to spring it.
Across the quiet of the night came the sound of a lone horse, galloping hard. Its rider could be heard urging it on, begging it for more speed. The animal tore up the last twists and turns of the southern path before bursting into view in the dark cloudy early morning, sprinting for the only puddle of light it could see. Understone barracks.
Voices were raised inside. Feet could be heard running on earth and wood and the odd lantern was hung outside the walls, augmenting the firelight within and the braziers ranged along the top of the stockade.
The rider swung into the street and slewed to a halt in front of the gates in a cloud of dust, horse steaming and sweating, froth oozing from under the saddle and dripping from its bit. The rider all but fell from his mount, staggering to the gates and hammering on them, pleading with those watching from above to let him in, fear threatening to overwhelm him.
'Please! Please let me in. Dear Gods, they're right behind me. Please!'
'Who are?' demanded a voice. 'Calm down, man.'
'Black Wings,' gasped the rider. 'Can you not hear them?'
And there it was. The unmistakable sound of multiple hoof beats echoing across the town.
'You're a mage?'
'What else?' shouted the man, desperation edging his voice. 'Don't leave me out here to die, I beg you. Please.'
A brief conversation was ended by an order barked down from the parapet. A heavy plank slid back from its mountings and one of the braced stockade gates began to creak open.
'Now!' shouted a voice slurred by paralysis.
A dozen pairs of hands shoved at the gates as men ran from the shadows either side. Simultaneously, a quartet of arrows whipped up to the parapet, punching two men from their feet to thump lifeless onto the earth below. More followed, volley after volley, while the Black Wings drove the doors back.
Shouts ricocheted across the compound as the Black Wings pushed through. Selik headed them, moving left to slash his sword into the back of one of the men trying to keep the gates shut. His men piled in behind him, laughing as they came, slapping the gates back the last few feet and trapping one hapless college soldier against the stockade wall.
'Split!' yelled Selik. 'Gain the ramparts. Loose groups. Watch for spells. Go!'
He sped on, breath wheezing into his part-paralysed chest. He ran straight across the compound, stables to his left, barrack buildings ahead. Devun was at his shoulder, others either side, and he felt energy flood through him.
The door to the wide low barracks building opened and men spilled out, half dressed, half asleep, still buckling leather as they came. Anders led them. It was too perfect. Selik swept back his hood and struck hard, right to left. Anders, distracted, missed the blow, which sheared into his left arm and on into his unarmoured ribs. The garrison commander went down in a welter of blood, not even having the breath to scream as the blade sliced through his lung and heart.
The fight against magic had truly begun, and as Selik blocked a disheartened sword thrust and the first spell bloomed behind him, he still had time to remind himself to praise Devun for his superb acting performance before the compound gates.
Chapter 36
Aeb lay alone. The Calaian Sun was three days from Balaia and sailing well, easing through the water and eating up the distance. Above him, on the sun-swept deck, The Raven trained. He could hear Hirad shouting orders and The Unknown urging better cohesion. He could hear the occasional ring of steel, the creaking of the ship's timbers and the snap of the sails on the masts.
But he couldn't be with them because, like Erienne, who spent so much of her time lying still under the tutelage of the Al-Drechar, he had been called to commune with the Soul Tank. He felt the unease as soon as he opened himself fully. It was uncomfortable, drowning for a moment, the intense feelings of brotherhood he had with every Protector, near or far. It was what kept him sane and focussed; it was his life. His soul mingling with those of the other three hundred and twelve now left, still mourning those lost, still joyful in their own union. Still so powerful.