‘I don’t understand.’
Sha-Kaan’s eyes opened to spear Hirad with his massive gaze.
‘Of course you don’t. But still you stole from me.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘Quiet!’ thundered Sha-Kaan. ‘Be quiet and listen to me. Be silent until I order you to speak.’
Hirad licked his lips. He could hear The Unknown slowing as he neared him, his feet cracking the dead earth and vegetation. He waved his hand behind him to keep his friend back.
Sha-Kaan spoke again, his eyes great pools of blue ire, his nostrils wide and firing repellent breath through Hirad’s hair from a distance of less than three feet. The barbarian felt small, though small was hardly a strong enough word. Insignificant. And yet the imperious beast chose to speak to him rather than scorch the skin from his body and the flesh from his bones
But there was no mistaking Sha-Kaan’s mood. This was not the dragon who had seemed so amused by Hirad’s presence at their first meeting beyond the dragonene dimension gate at Taranspike Castle. The meeting that had led The Raven inextricably to Parve and the deployment of Dawnthief. Now he was angry. Angry and anxious. Not for Hirad, for himself. The barbarian felt he’d hear nothing to his advantage.
He was right.
‘I warned you,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘I told you that I was keeping from you that with which you could destroy yourselves and my Brood with you. You chose not to listen. And now the results of your actions stain the sky in my dimension and in yours.
‘There, Hirad Coldheart, is the problem. It is typical, I suppose, that you should contrive to save yourselves while condemning Skies know how many of my Brood to death in your defence. But your salvation can only be temporary. Because when my Brood is gone, you will be defenceless. One dragon here, bent upon your destruction, is all it will take. And there are thousands waiting to tear this place apart. Thousands.’ Hirad gazed into the yawning depths of Sha-Kaan’s eyes, his mind a blank.
‘You have no conception of what you have done, have you?’ Sha-Kaan blinked very slowly, breaking Hirad’s concentration. ‘Speak.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Hirad. ‘All I do know is that we had to find and cast Dawnthief or the Wytch Lords and Wesmen would have swept us aside. You can’t blame us for trying to save our own lives.’
‘And that is as far as you think. The ripples of your actions are no concern as you rest in the glory of your immediate triumph, are they?’
‘We were bound to use all the weapons at our disposal,’ said Hirad a little shortly.
‘This weapon was not at your disposal,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘And it was used inaccurately. You stole it from me.’
‘It was there to be taken,’ replied Hirad. ‘And inaccurate or not, we used it to save Balaia.’
Sha-Kaan stretched his mouth wide and laughed. The sound cracked across the Torn Wastes, setting petrified animals to flight, stopping The Unknown in his tracks and blowing Hirad onto his back. The laughter stopped abruptly, its aftershocks echoing like thunder against cliffs as they smacked against Parve’s buildings.
The great dragon stretched his neck, head travelling slowly up Hirad’s prone form, drool dripping from his half-open maw, until it came to rest over his face.
Hirad pushed himself up on his elbows to look into those eyes that blotted out the light. He quailed, almost able to touch the fangs that could so easily rip out his life, each easily the size of his forearm.
‘Save Balaia,’ repeated Sha-Kaan, voice quiet and cold. ‘You have done nothing of the sort. Instead, you have torn a hole between our worlds and it is a hole the Kaan cannot defend for ever. And when we fail, who will defend you from your total destruction or abject slavery, do you think?’ Sha-Kaan’s head angled up. Hirad followed his gaze to The Unknown and Ilkar, Will and Thraun who now stood a few paces away, scared but not bowed. Hirad smiled, pride swelling his heart.
‘Who are these?’ demanded Sha-Kaan.
‘They’re The Raven, most of it.’
‘Friends?’
‘Yes.’
Sha-Kaan retracted his neck to take them all in.
‘Then listen, Hirad Coldheart and The Raven. Listen closely and I shall tell you what must be done to save us all.’
The Lord Tessaya walked the streets of Understone, a bottle of white grape spirit in his hand. Streets churned by fight, blood and rain, now baking hard under a hot sun which set the mud into grotesque sculptures depicting the imprint of death.
All around him, sounds of celebration echoed from the lush green slopes surrounding the town. A dozen cook-fires crackled and spat, smoke spiralling into the partly cloudy sky. The shouts of sparring and the harsh laughter of storytelling rose above the general level of noise, but some sounds were missing - the screams of the tortured, the weeping of the raped and the pleas of the dying.
Tessaya was pleased. For he had not come to Understone to devastate and destroy. That endgame he reserved for the Colleges. No, he came to Understone to conquer and to rule. The first step to his domination of the whole of Balaia. A domination he could enjoy alone now that the Wytch Lords were gone.
And he would not rule by terror. In a land too large for the hand of fear, that was the way of fools. His way was simple. Control population centres through weight of numbers. Install trusted men to overlord the people and instil their own rules and discipline based on his model. Control gatherings, control talk. Be visible. The iron hand. Leave little hope and prompt no righteous anger.
Tessaya chewed his lip. It was a departure from the traditional Wesmen way but, as far as he saw it, the old way brought nothing but conflict and division. If the Wesmen were to govern Balaia, they had to adapt.
Reaching the end of the village. Tessaya paused a moment and drank from his bottle. Before him ran the trails that burrowed deep into the heart of Eastern Balaia. The arteries down which he would march to victory.
Rising on each side, gentle green slopes rolled away towards the stunning flatlands that were home to Lord Denebre, an old trading partner. There, the farmland was rich, the animals plentiful and the peace complete. For now.
There were decisions to be made but first there were questions to be asked. Tessaya headed left up a slope to where Understone’s defenders had built their barracks, now their prison. Two dozen canvas and wood structures, built for two hundred men. Six of them now housed around three hundred prisoners, leaving plenty of room for his men, those few that wanted shelter. Men and women were separated and the wounded Wesmen lay side by side with Eastern Balaians. Enemies they might be but they deserved honour and the chance to live after choosing to fight over the coward’s route of surrender.
Walking towards the barracks, he noted with pleasure the bearing of the guards. Ramrod straight and placed at even intervals surrounding the prison huts. He nodded at the man who opened the door for him.
‘My Lord,’ said the man, bowing his head in deference.
Inside, the barrack hut was cramped, stuffy and hot. Men sprawled on bunk and floor, some played cards, others spoke in huddles. One thing linked them all. It was the face of defeat, the humiliation of abject surrender.
As Tessaya entered, quiet spread along the length of the hut until all those scared eyes stared at him, waiting for him to deliver their fate. The contempt with which he regarded them was palpable.
‘Time to talk,’ he said in faultless pure-East dialect. One man moved through the throng. He was fat, greying and too short for a warrior. Perhaps in the past he had been powerful but now his mud-stained armour covered nothing more frightening than blubber.
‘I am Kerus, garrison commander of Understone. You may address your questions to me.’