‘It will not always be so.’ Barras could see the hatred in Senedai’s face and knew that the old mage, whose name he could not recall, had scored a victory, however small.
‘Release my people,’ said the mage. Senedai had no choice. He shook his head, waved his arm wearily and the guards released the arms of the prisoners they held. None moved to run and the perplexed expressions on the faces of the guards told everything. Precious few had understood Senedai’s exchange with the old mage and even fewer could see why their prisoners made no attempt to save themselves.
‘We will line up, each person holding the hand of those either side.’ The prisoners moved silently forward, the men and women upright and proud through their fear, the children uncomprehending, their voices stilled in the enormity of the atmosphere.
Barras could hardly bear to watch but knew that to flinch was to betray the act of extraordinary courage being played out in front of him. He wanted to shout for them to run, to fight, to struggle against their deaths. A part of him, though, saw that this solidarity would unsettle Senedai more than any futile fight. Now, at least, he knew the strength of will of the Julatsan people. Or thought he did.
The movement below Barras ceased. Fifty Julatsans stood a single pace from the DemonShroud, faces alive with terror at their imminent deaths and the evil pulsing from the Shroud’s borders. The wind whistled around the walls of the College. Behind the line, Senedai and his guards stood uncertain, their objective about to be fulfilled but the initiative gone.
The old mage stood in the centre of the line, hands clasped with a child on his right and an elderly man to his left. He stared up at the ramparts.
‘My mages Kerela and Barras, General Kard, it is with honour that we make this sacrifice. Do not let it be in vain.’
‘It will not be,’ said Barras, his voice shaking.
‘What is your name?’ asked Kerela from beside the stunned negotiator.
‘Theopa, my Lord.’
‘Theopa, your name will live forever in the minds of generations of Julatsan mages that follow you,’ said Kerela. ‘I am shamed and lessened not to have known you better.’
‘It is enough that you know me now. And know all of us now.’ He raised his voice. ‘Come, let us walk to glory. The Gods will smile upon us, and the demons below will have mercy on our souls.’ Theopa’s expression betrayed the lie.
Beside him, the child started to weep. Theopa bent and whispered words that would remain between them. The child nodded, her face cracking into a smile.
‘Close your eyes and walk with me,’ said the mage, his voice loud and strong. He paced forward, the line with him. The fifty Julatsans dropped, their mouths open, screams of agony cut short as their souls were torn from their bodies.
Barras could feel the tears on his cheeks. A soldier walked by him, muttered something under his breath. Kard heard him.
‘Consider yourself confined to your quarters,’ he grated. ‘Speak to no one on your way. I will deal with you myself.’ The soldier paled and moved on.
‘Don’t be harsh on him,’ said Barras.
‘He accused you of murder.’
‘He was right.’
Kard stepped in front of Barras, shielding him from the Wesmen below. ‘Never, ever believe that. The murderer stands outside these walls. And he will be brought to justice.’ Barras gestured Kard aside.
‘Lord Senedai,’ he called. The Wesman turned and looked up. ‘May your dreams be plagued by the shades of hell every day of your short life.’
Senedai bowed. ‘I will return at midday. More will die.’
Barras began preparing. From here, he could take Senedai, burn the flesh from his bones. Kerela stopped him, breaking his concentration.
‘I understand your hate,’ she said. ‘But you’ll be wasting your mana on the inside of the Shroud. Better we channel our energies to finding a way to free ourselves and our prisoners. Come, Barras. Rest and think.’
The High Mage led the weeping Barras from the ramparts.
Chapter 14
Tessaya had to know he was coming but it was both the price he was willing to pay and the risk he had to take. In truth, Styliann hadn’t expected to talk his way past Riasu but the nervous tribal Lord had been so taken aback by the display of Protector power that he had sent horsemen through the pass to seek Tessaya’s approval before the blood of his warriors had run cold.
To Styliann it had all served as a fascinating demonstration of the fear in which all things magical were held. Individually, Wesmen, even their Lords, were weak. Most of them. But, he considered, there were notable exceptions. For one, the man commanding the tribes laying siege to Julatsa. Undoubtedly a strong man but even he was apparently unwilling to press on into the heart of their magic, stayed by a trepidation of the unknown that no proof of might could shift. Generations of conditioning stood between the man and his conquest of a College city. Something that had never been achieved before.
And then, Tessaya, an altogether different animal. His reputation went before him and Styliann was certain that he would not so much as entertain the thought of talking to the Lord of the Mount. Death or hostage. Styliann favoured the latter.
There lay the gamble. He had his route across the mountains. He had avoided further travel with both The Raven, whom he distrusted and admired in equal measure, and with the bright General, Darrick - a man in the hero mould if ever there was one; the former because he had no wish to join the attempted liberation of Julatsa and the latter because Gyernath was simply too far. To lose the stewardship of the Mount even temporarily, was a humiliation that took precedence over every consideration.
For a while, in the aftermath of the Dawnthief casting and the realisation of his usurpation, he had suffered a crisis of confidence as his influence over Balaian affairs waned. But it had all become clear to him soon enough. Much of the modern expertise in dimensional magics lay within the walls of Xetesk, and there was a text recently released from the locked vaults beneath his Tower which he was certain had direct bearing on the problem facing The Raven. His influence over Balaia would remain crucial but only if he could regain the Mount quickly.
Thus, his chosen route. It was the most direct to Xetesk by several days but contained the largest obstacle. Tessaya. But even the fact that Tessaya expected him was not necessarily a fatal disadvantage. After all, Styliann was under guard and coming to talk. The Wesmen would hardly be massing their armies. Indeed, quite the reverse if he knew anything about Tessaya’s mind. And Styliann had the advantage of knowing precisely when he would arrive, a luxury not afforded the Lord of the Wesmen.
As the sun reached the heights of the midday sky, Styliann, his Protectors and a guard of forty Wesmen moved into Understone Pass, the former Lord of the Mount the only one on horseback. The Wesmen were guides, monitors and a guard of honour, Riasu had said and at the time Styliann had found it hard not to laugh.
Did the Wesman Lord really believe Styliann could get lost in a Pass with only one bore? And what good did he think forty would be against ninety of the most complete fighting machines in Balaia? The answer to the latter was, as it turned out, none at all.
Styliann yawned and looked behind him. As at the head of the column, twenty Wesmen were marching along the pass, the light from their lanterns decorating the dark slate walls with elaborate dancing shadows as they moved. Above him, a natural fissure ran up into the heart of the Blackthorne Mountains. Up ahead, however, the ceiling shelved down sharply to a height of less than fifteen feet and on one side the path fell away into a chasm that struck into the depths of hell.
The air was damp and cool and, here and there, water dripped, the escape of some long forgotten rainfall or buried tributary. The sounds of foot and hoof combined with the slap of scabbard on thigh to echo ever louder from the walls as they closed in. Hardly a word had been exchanged, none between Styliann and the Wesmen, and the warriors’ bravado had fast given way to uneasy whispers and ultimately an anxious silence. Understone Pass did that to people. The power overhead and the press to left and right stole confidence, hunched shoulders and hurried footsteps.