Styliann sat on his horse in the centre of the protective echelon, his hands on the pommel of his saddle, watching the Wesmen come to some semblance of order. An initial urge to run to the attack was halted, and out of the angry and threatening gathering came one man flanked by four others. He strode purposefully across the space between them until he stood only a few yards from the front rank of Protectors. Two dozen masked heads moved fractionally to watch him and his guard, their weapons held at rest but their bodies tensed for action.
The Wesman spoke in tribal Wes dialect, his accent clipped and harsh, his speech quick but confident.
‘You are trespassing on lands that belong to the unified tribes. State your reason for approaching.’
‘I am sorry for my sudden arrival,’ replied Styliann, his Wes rusty but serviceable so long as he kept to the basics. ‘Before I speak, I ask who I am speaking to.’
The Wesman inclined his head slightly.
‘Your use of my language earns you some small respect,’ he said. ‘My name is Riasu. I would have yours.’
‘I am Styliann, Lord of Xetesk.’ He saw no reason to correct the slight inaccuracy. ‘You are in charge here?’ Riasu nodded.
‘I have a force of more than two thousand tribal warriors who have closed the pass to our enemies. You have the look of one such.’
Styliann was sure his use of language was far more colourful but it was the best translation he could make in the time he had.
‘The skill of your warriors is known to me,’ said Styliann, struggling for the right words. ‘But you have no magic. I bring you that.’
Riasu laughed. ‘We have no need of your magic. It is evil and must die. As must you.’ Styliann remained impassive despite the threat.
‘I know your fear—’ he began.
‘I have no fear,’ snapped Riasu, his tone hardening. Styliann raised his hands in a gesture of calm.
‘Your - ah - belief. But know the truth of it. Your arrows cannot harm me or my men. Try.’ Styliann’s HardShield was raised in seconds but Riasu merely shook his head.
‘I know your magic,’ he said. ‘What do you want that would stop me wanting your head.’
‘Who is the leader of your armies in the East?’
‘The Lord Tessaya.’
‘I will speak to him,’ said Styliann.
‘If I allow your travel,’ said Riasu. ‘Something I have no wish to do. What do you want?’
Styliann nodded, unwilling to make a show of force. The very fact that Riasu had not ordered an attack on him demonstrated the Wesman’s caution and fear of the force of magic, not to mention the obvious power of the Protectors. But he was concerned that this lesser Lord would misunderstand him and he could not afford to lose any Protectors this side of the pass.
‘Let us sit, talk and eat by a fire,’ said the former Lord of the Mount. ‘Out here on neutral ground.’
‘Very well.’ Riasu shouted orders back to his men at the gate of the stockade. A flurry of activity resulted in firewood, a cooking pot, food and an increased guard arriving in the space between Styliann and the tribal Lord. Soon, the fire was blazing and water heating up over the flames. Declining any pleasantries, Riasu and Styliann took up positions on opposite sides of the fire, a dozen guards behind each of them. The remainder of Styliann’s Protectors were ordered back as far from their master as the Wesmen were from theirs.
Styliann smiled inwardly at the arrangement set out by Riasu. He had no conception of the communication the Protectors enjoyed. If the meeting broke down, Riasu would be dead, his guard overrun and Styliann reinforced long before any help could arrive from the stockade. Still, it made him happy and that was all Styliann really wanted.
With wine and meat in hand, Riasu began.
‘I will not say this is a pleasure. But I will not toss my warriors’ lives away in needless fight. This is one thing Tessaya has taught us.’
‘But it has not halted large loss of life in Julatsa,’ said Styliann, preferring to keep his mind clear with a hot rough leaf tea that a quick divining spell had revealed as harmless, if a little bitter.
‘I know nothing of that.’
‘I do.’ Styliann looked at the reaction of Riasu, his augmented eyesight piercing both fire glare and gathering gloom to see a flicker of doubt in the Wesman’s face. ‘Your feelings about magic do you no help,’ he continued. ‘You hate magic because you do not understand it. If you did, you would see that it could help you.’
Riasu snorted. ‘I think not. We are a warrior race. Your tricks may kill and maim and see things far away but we will triumph over you one day.’
Styliann sighed. He could see this discussion going round in circles.
‘Yet you said you would not toss away the lives of your men. If you do not listen to me, you will be doing that.’ Styliann cursed his lack of vocabulary in tribal Wes. It was difficult to make any emphasis and Riasu needed his eyes opened very crudely if he was to see sense and give Styliann access to the pass.
‘Tell me of your bargain.’ Riasu moved subject without any evidence he had heard, let alone comprehended, anything Styliann had said so far.
‘It is simple,’ said Styliann. ‘I would regain access to my College quickly. You wish to destroy magic. You can help me do the one and I will help you do the other if you let my magic live.’
‘We are sworn to end all magic.’ Riasu shrugged. ‘Why should we bargain with you?’
‘You will never end all magic,’ said Styliann shortly. ‘If one mage lives, there is magic. If there is magic, it can be learned by others. And you will never take Xetesk.’
‘You are so sure. But if you were to die here, what then?’
Styliann kneaded his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. He should have expected this rather blinkered and aggressive pig-headedness but that knowledge didn’t help his frustration.
‘You won’t kill me here. You haven’t the strength,’ he said, looking Riasu directly in the eye. The Wesman stiffened.
‘You dare to threaten me in my own lands?’
‘No.’ Styliann permitted himself to relax and chuckle. ‘I just speak the truth.’
‘Two thousand men,’ said Riasu, jerking a thumb in the direction of the stockade.
‘I know. But your beliefs—’ (oh, to know the word for ignorance)
‘—about magic stop your eyes from seeing the truth. My men here are nearly one hundred in number and if I thought I had to fight you, I would not fear the outcome. They are magical. If you saw them fight, you would see.’
‘We would cut you down.’
‘You are skilled but you are not strong with magic. I do not wish to fight. Let me talk with Tessaya.’
Riasu raised a forefinger. ‘Very well. A test. One of your masked men against two of my warriors.’
‘It will be an uneven fight,’ said Styliann. ‘I have no wish to spill the blood of your men.’
‘State the odds, then,’ said Riasu.
‘One of my men will take four of yours, armed or unarmed. But this is not what I want to see.’
Riasu raised his eyebrows. ‘Four? This I must see. And armed, I think. Let us see a real fight.’ He leaned to his left and spoke to one of his guard. The man nodded and ran back towards the stockade. ‘Choose who you will.’
‘Do you want this? It is wasted death.’ Styliann pursed his lips.
‘For you, maybe.’
‘As you wish.’ Styliann rose from the fire, his food forgotten. Perhaps this was inevitable. It really depended whether Riasu took it as insult or with respect. He summoned the nearest Protector with a crook of his right index finger.
‘Choose one who is willing to fight. It isn’t to protect me but to prove a point so I want it to be quick and bloody, do you understand?’ he asked of the masked warrior.
‘I understand.’
‘Excellent. Who shall it be?’ The Protector was silent for a moment, communing with his brothers.