A man was striding up the slope of Drovers’ Way, the main street, towards them. He was tall, middle-aged and dressed in robes of state. The mayor’s emblem hung around his neck and he was clutching a roll of parchment.
‘I’d say welcome, Blackthorne, but there’s precious little of my town left for that,’ he said. Blackthorne shook the man’s hand.
‘But more than I can currently offer you at my own,’ replied the Baron. ‘Mayor Scalier, may I introduce my friend, Baron Gresse.’ The two men shook.
‘I have heard of your efforts,’ said Scalier. ‘It is rare to find a man of your honour wearing Baronial colours these days. Present company excepted, naturally.’
‘Rarer still to find a victorious Eastern Balaian. I congratulate you on your triumph.’
Scalier’s smile faded a little and his long lined face took on a sadder aspect below the wisps of grey hair that blew about his head.
‘If it can be described as such. We cannot sustain another such attack; we will be driven into the sea. And as I look down on the ruins, I wonder whether that might not be a blessing.’
‘I understand your feelings, Scalier, as perhaps no one else can. But you know that my request for soldiers and mages is aimed at finishing the threat of such an attack.’ Blackthorne rubbed at his beard. ‘I presume that parchment is your decision.’
‘Yes. I am sorry it has taken this long to deliver our answer; your messenger was most insistent about its urgency, but you can see we have had one or two other matters to attend to.’ He handed over the parchment which Blackthorne unrolled quickly, his heart beating proud in his chest as he scanned the numbers it contained. His face cracked into a huge but short-lived smile.
‘You cannot afford this many men and mages. You have to maintain some defence.’ He passed the parchment to Gresse whose breath hissed in through his teeth. Scalier clapped his hands together.
‘What for? Just look around you. The Wesmen must be stopped and you can stop them if you take the rest of Gyernath’s army and its mages with you. We will position scouts and beacon fires on every route from the port. Should the Wesmen attack us again, we will have advance warning and evacuate to sea. You will command the forces of Gyernath and may the Gods bless you in your fight.’
Blackthorne grabbed Scalier and hugged him, slapping his back until the older man coughed.
‘What you have done gives Balaia a chance,’ he said. ‘Once Blackthorne is retaken and the camps either side of the Bay of Gyernath are destroyed, we will march back north and fight at Understone. And this time, we will have victory as a true goal. Then,’ he turned to Gresse. ‘Then will come the reckoning.’
‘How soon can these men be ready?’ asked Gresse.
‘It will take a while to provision the ships and I should think the same time for you to formulate your plans with my Captains, not to mention allowing time for rest. There is a tide that will stream out in the early hours in two days’ time. You should be on it.’ Blackthorne nodded.
‘Come, let us find an inn that is standing and drink to Gyernath and the whole of Balaia.’ He led the way down Drovers’ Way, his head high, his mood ecstatic. There would be a victory at Blackthorne. His men, together with eight thousand from Gyernath, would sweep the Wesmen back across the Bay and into their homelands to lick their wounds. He hoped enough lived to curse their folly and to resolve never to challenge Baron Blackthorne again.
Chapter 18
Thraun felt it first, though Hirad didn’t know it until later. Denser was still in Communion, face drawn into a deep frown, lips moving soundlessly, Erienne stroking his hair.
To the rest of The Raven, nothing was out of the ordinary, but the wolf picked up his head and made a soft noise in his throat which became a whine. He shook his powerful muzzle and stood up, sniffing the air, hackles rising, a slight quiver apparent in his forelegs.
He backed away from the stove, ignoring Will’s calming hand and voice, looking left across the river and right into the brush that secluded them from unwelcome eyes. The whine continued from deep in the centre of his forehead then shut off abruptly. He locked eyes with Hirad and the barbarian would have laughed, swearing the wolf was actually frowning in worry, had not the pain seared into his skull.
He cried out, clutching his head in both hands, making to rise but falling back, first to his haunches, then flat prone his legs thrashing, facial muscles horribly twisting his expression. Dimly, he heard Ilkar’s voice and felt other hands grabbing at him, trying to still his body as it heaved and tremored.
It was like nothing he had ever experienced. As if his brain was being squashed against the inside of his head by spiked mallets while, at the same time, squeezed to the size of an apple by a monstrous hand. He saw flashes of red and gold light before his eyes though the rest of the world was dark, and in his ears the sound of a thousand pairs of wings beat on his eardrums. His nose, he thought in a queer moment of total clarity, was bleeding.
The agony had a voice. Hirad heard it echo at first, unsure whether it was another trick of the pain. It came to him on a hurricane of whispers just out of reach, sliding past his numbed mind then grabbing a hold. He wanted to open his eyes but could not. His limbs too, were leaden and immobile.
This is death, he thought.
‘No, Hirad Coldheart, not death.’ It was a voice he knew well and though it came to him from out of his nightmares, it brought strange comfort. ‘I am sorry for the inevitable unpleasantness. First contact over such a distance is difficult but it will ease. I will teach you.’
‘Sha-Kaan?’ Hirad was aware his mouth was moving but his confusion of thoughts found a focal point in his bruised brain, allowing him to communicate.
‘Excellent. There is no damage.’
‘It doesn’t feel that way and unpleasantness is hardly the word I would choose to describe what you have just caused.’
Sha-Kaan chuckled, a gentle feeling which stroked Hirad’s aching mind.
‘You have the same fearlessness I found in Septern,’ he said. ‘It is a shame you are not a mage.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it would make our binding all the more powerful and complete.’
‘What binding?’ Hirad felt a flicker of worry. It hadn’t occurred why Sha-Kaan had chosen to contact him. He hadn’t even conceived the possibility unless the dragon was in Balaia. The fact that he was apparently speaking from great distance was a cause for concern.
‘There is something I must ask you to do that will help my Brood to survive. I am old, even by the standards of the Kaan, yet I have had no Dragonene since the death of Seran at Taranspike Castle. You are the only human with the strength of mind to answer my calls. I may have need of you in the time before you travel to my domain.’
Hirad was stunned. He also felt a sense of overwhelming honour but curiously didn’t know why he should. He had precious little knowledge of the Dragonene save that all were mages.
‘But what can I do? I cannot cast a spell. Why me?’
‘There are others of The Raven to channel the energies of interdimensional space and to provide for my wounds and damages. But yours is a mind that burns bright for me as those of your friends do not. Even were I sorely wounded, I could find you and reach sanctuary. I ask that you agree. I will teach you what you need to know.’
‘And can I call on you?’
‘Should you need to, but I could not swear to answer you immediately, nor to be able to give you the help you desire, though I would expect nothing less from you.’