‘Hmmm?’ The Unknown hadn’t heard his question.
‘I said, you wouldn’t still want to be a Protector, would you?’ repeated the barbarian.
‘I can never properly describe to you what I lost when my soul reentered my body but what I gained was my former life and it was the life I loved and had chosen to live. No, I would never want to be a Protector again but neither will I demand the release of those still within the Calling either. For some of them, the shock would kill them. They’ve been in the tank too long and their past has become meaningless. They have to want to be free.’
Hirad nodded. He thought he understood. He gazed up at the rip, boiling in the sky, its white-flecked brown surface like the eye of a malevolent God surveying Balaia.
‘I guess that’s a task for later,’ he said. ‘C’mon, let’s see what the mages have dreamed up.’
Tessaya slept little on a night he should have slumbered deep and untroubled, cocooned in the comfort of victory and the promise of conquest. But he was restless, the fat soldier’s words eating at his dreams and breaking his rest.
Darrick. The thorn in the Wesmen’s hide nine years before, when the original capture of Understone Pass was first a dream, then a desire and finally a key. And still he rode, clearly instrumental in the battle which saw the devastation of Wesmen in the water magic which had scoured Understone Pass only a few days before.
Darrick. Through the pass and deep into Wesmen territory. To Parve, where the Wytch Lords were strongest and were beaten. There was no doubt he was pleased that the Wytch Lord influence had been removed. Though it had galvanised and united the tribes, it was a wholly unequal partnership which demanded the subjugation of the Tribal Lords beneath the Wytch Lord standard. But with the ancients gone and the power of the Shamen - which had most certainly aided the invasion - reduced once again to that of soothsayers, spirit guides and medicine men, the Tribal Lords could assume their rightful positions.
Yet anyone capable of orchestrating the downfall of the Wytch Lords was a threat only a fool would ignore. Tessaya wondered whether he hadn’t exchanged a tyrannical master for an even greater danger to his life and leadership.
Still, as he sat up in his bed in the early hours of the morning, with the silence of Understone ringing in his ears, a mug of water in his hand to ease his throbbing head, he couldn’t help but feel respect.
Respect for Darrick, his cavalry and The Raven. The latter, men surely not a great many years younger than himself but who defied death through skill and courage. He smiled. They represented an enemy he could understand and so defeat. It was his ace but a card he would have to play just right.
He knew where they must be and Parve was more than ten days’ ride from Understone. Not only that, their passage to the East would be difficult in the extreme, if not impossible. Tessaya smiled again, relaxing at last. While Darrick was a man to be watched, for now at least he could be watched from a distance.
The Lord of the Paleon Tribes fought back the urge to sleep now his mind was calm. Dawn was approaching and there was a great deal to organise. Tessaya wanted all of Balaia and for that, he needed lines of communication between his armies.
With the Wytch Lords gone, messages could no longer be sent via the Shamen. Tessaya found himself smiling once more because, again, they would have to rely on the old methods. On smoke, on flags and on birds.
Tessaya had known it was likely. Despite the best efforts of the Shamen to dissuade him, he’d brought all of his messaging birds with him and had insisted his Generals do the same. His foresight meant that communication would be swift and effective but first, men would have to take his birds to each Wesmen stronghold in Eastern Balaia. There lay the risk.
If he was right, however, and the forces of the East were shattered all along the Blackthorne Mountains, his riders would comfortably reach their targets and the links could be made. Tessaya called for a guard to summon his riders, dressed quickly in shirt and leather and met them on the baked earth outside Understone’s inn.
The morning was clear and bright. A cool and gentle breeze ran off the Blackthorne Mountains, which rose stark and black in front of Tessaya, stretching away north and south, stopping only to dive into the sea. He had always hated the mountains. Without the freak feature, the Wesmen would have plundered the East generations before and magic would never have been born.
The Spirits had been unkind, leaving the mighty range as a constant challenge to the Wesmen desire for conquest. Tessaya turned his tanned and weather-worn face from the unending miles of black rock at the sound of footsteps behind him. His riders approached, accompanied by Arnoan, the Shaman. Tessaya quashed a scowl. Much as he respected Arnoan, he would have to move him firmly aside from the decision-making process. Conquest was the province of warriors, not witch doctors.
‘My Lord,’ said Arnoan, inclining his old head. Tessaya acknowledged him vaguely, focusing on his riders. Six men, lean, fit and expert horsemen in a race for whom riding was traditionally the right of nobles only.
‘Three north to meet with Lord Senedai, three south to meet with Lord Taomi,’ said Tessaya without preamble. ‘You will split the birds evenly between you. To the north, you must travel to Julatsa. To the south, towards Blackthorne. I can spare you four days only to find our armies. You must not fail. Much of the glory of battles to come rests with you.’
‘My Lord, we will not fail you,’ said one.
‘Ready yourselves. I shall prepare messages for you. Be back here in half an hour.’
‘My Lord.’ The riders trotted away to the stable blocks which were housed at the east end of the town.
‘Arnoan, a word if I may.’
‘Certainly, my Lord.’ Tessaya gestured for the old Shaman to precede him into the inn. The two men sat at the table they had shared the day before.
‘Messages, my Lord?’
‘Yes, but I feel well able to phrase them myself.’
Arnoan reacted as if slapped.
‘Tessaya, it is the way of the Wesmen that the Shamen advise the Warrior Lords, as befits their senior positions in the affairs of the tribes.’ The old Shaman frowned deeply, his wispy grey hair flying in the breeze that eddied through the open inn door.
‘Absolutely,’ said Tessaya. ‘But this is not a tribal affair. This is war and the Warrior Lords shall have complete control over all command decisions, choosing who they will to advise them, and when.’
‘But since the new rise of the Wytch Lords, the Shamen have gained respect throughout the tribes,’ protested Arnoan, his hands gripping the edge of the table.
‘But the Wytch Lords are gone, and the respect that you saw was sown in fear of your masters. You no longer have magic, you cannot wield a sword, you have no concept of the pressure of war from the front line or the command post.’ Tessaya remained impassive.
‘You are dismissing me, my Lord?’
Tessaya allowed his face to soften. ‘No, Arnoan. You are an old and trusted friend and as such, I am giving you the opportunity to take your rightful place without the eyes of the tribesmen upon you. I will ask for your advice when I require it. Until then, please do not offer it, but take some from me. The time of Shaman domination of the tribes died with the Wytch Lords. Assumption that your hold over the Wesmen still remains could prove a costly, not to say dangerous mistake.’
‘You are so sure that the Wytch Lords are gone. I am not so,’ said Arnoan.
‘The evidence was there for all to see. As was the fear in your eyes when the magic was taken from you. Do not try to convince me it is any different.’
Arnoan shoved his chair back, eyes suddenly ablaze.
‘We helped you. Without the Shamen, you would still be west of Understone Pass, dreaming of conquest and glory. Now you have it and you cast us aside. That too could prove a costly mistake.’