Gresse rode to Blackthorne’s shoulder and dismounted to stand beside his friend who stood pale and silent, a tear from his left eye drawing a track through the dust on his cheek. This was not a time for words, it was a time to stand with your friend. To lend all the strength that you had.
And as the army crested the rise, the silence spread. Gasped expletives echoed hollowly and, here and there, Blackthorne’s men fell to their knees, the will drained from their bodies, their dreams of a return home snuffed out. Blackthorne was gone.
The Baron stared down unmoving at the ruins of his town. Gresse saw the thoughts chase themselves across his face, on which anger flourished and spread. Behind them, the army waited, those native to Blackthorne stunned, those of Gyernath respectful of their anguish.
Eventually, Blackthorne turned to address all that could hear him.
‘I’ll be brief,’ his voice echoed out over the massed ranks. ‘Down there, you see my town. Torn apart by Wesmen. And among you are those who can see only ruins where their houses once stood. I am one of them. That is why we must pursue the Wesmen and that is why they must be stopped and driven from our lands forever. Yes, I want revenge but more, I want none of the rest of you to feel the way I feel now.
‘Now let’s get moving. General, if you please.’
The mist was just as Hirad remembered it. Like dust across the sun but this time on a day plagued by showers and a cold wind. The dreary light merely added to the sense of wrong that the mass of static mana Septern’s ailing rip generated.
But the weather was not all that was different. In front of the ruins of the Septern Manse stood Styliann and the Protector army, visible as a dark mass of barely human stillness through the mist and five hundred yards of distance. And to Hirad’s left, riding so slowly he barely moved The Raven on at all, was The Unknown Warrior.
During the four days of their ride to the Manse, his mood had changed by degrees from one of hard determination to tetchy introspection, and now angry confusion. And as The Raven neared the low barn where he had met his death, his lack of focused thought led to snarled exchanges with Hirad that were merely exacerbated by the nearness of the Protector army.
‘You should just ride on by,’ said Hirad. ‘Put it behind you.’
‘And that demonstrates exactly how little you understand.’ The Unknown jabbed a finger at the Protectors. ‘They know. They understand but they cannot say anything.’
‘Would it help if they could?’ asked Hirad a little shortly.
‘Yes, damn you, it would,’ snapped The Unknown, reining to a halt. ‘Try and get your head straight. Have you really no conception of how I might be feeling?’
Hirad shrugged. ‘But you’re here,’ he said. ‘Here and breathing. Under the earth there isn’t you. It doesn’t have your soul.’
The Unknown flinched as if struck. ‘ “Soul?” Gods in the ground, your mouth will be your undoing one day,’ he growled. ‘You know nothing about my soul. By all that’s right, it should be with those of my ancestors. At peace. Not back in a body that isn’t the original and exposed to all this . . . this shit!’ He swept his arms about him expansively, taking in everything: the Protectors, the Manse, The Raven.
‘If you want to leave, go right ahead,’ said Hirad. ‘Desert the only true friends you have. I won’t stop you.’
‘For God’s sake, Hirad, listen to what he’s trying to tell you,’ said Ilkar before The Unknown could speak again. ‘Unknown, you need time alone. I suggest the barn is the right place. Hirad, we have Styliann to deal with.’
Hirad felt his anger surge but he kept it in check. Ilkar’s expression had hardened. The Unknown simply nodded at Ilkar, shot Hirad a withering look and urged his horse to a walk towards the barn and the grave he should never have had to face.
‘Hirad, we need to talk,’ said Ilkar.
‘Now?’
‘If Denser and Erienne will talk to Styliann on behalf of The Raven, I think now is a very good time, don’t you?’
Hirad raised his eyebrows. ‘You think I’ve been a little insensitive? ’
‘You haven’t lost your gift for understatement, have you?’ said Ilkar. ‘Ride with me, Hirad Coldheart. Ride and listen.’
The Unknown Warrior slid from his horse well before the long barn and let the animal wander away to trail the others to the ruins of the Manse.
Memories flooded into his head and his heart beat loud and wild in his chest, neck and ears. He pictured the Destrana war dogs running at him, their teeth bared, their saliva dripping and their eyes rolling. He felt his sword biting their flesh, the hot breath on his face, the clamp of fangs on his shoulder and the blood pouring from his torn throat.
He clutched at his neck with a gauntleted hand, his vision dimming as it had done before, the taste of his death in his mouth, the sounds around him diminishing. He fell to his knees and forward on to his free hand, gasping for breath, tears fogging his eyes. He coughed and retched, took the hand from his neck and stared at it while his vision cleared. No blood.
No blood, no dogs, no death. He raised his head, saw the barn dimly but found his gaze locked solid on the raised mound of earth just to the side of its doors.
‘Oh dear Gods,’ he said. ‘Save me from this.’
But there could be no salvation. For while The Unknown lived and breathed, his body still lay there. He retched again, bile flooding his mouth which he spat to the cracked earth.
‘Why couldn’t you let me have my death?’ he growled, hauling himself to his feet. He cursed Xetesk. His home for his youth but the place that had stolen his death from him. Given him a hideous perversion of life behind a mask. He cursed the city and its masters, the mages who still retained the abominations that were his brethren.
With his every footstep like wading through thigh-deep mud, he ground his way to the grave, his eyes stuck on the dusty mound, unmarked save for the vague imprint of The Raven symbol burned into its surface - mostly gone now, eroded in a few short weeks by the incessant breeze.
And when at last he stood there, gazing down at his own lonely grave, his tears fell unchecked from his cheeks, patterning the dirt at his feet. He knelt down and brushed his hand across his grave, knowing he could touch his own bones, see his own body and face. Take a good look at the true Unknown Warrior, whose body lay where his soul wanted to be. At rest. Free.
He breathed deep and closed his eyes, placing both hands on the grave. He dropped his head to his chest.
‘By north, by east, by south, by west. Though you are gone, you will always be Raven and I will always remember. Pity me that I breathe while you do not.’ He fell silent, unwilling to move. Knowing he had spoken the mantra to a soulless bag of bones but finding a curious peace in the Vigil he held.
Eventually, reverently, he stood up and backed two paces from the grave before turning towards the Manse. In front of him stood a Protector, Cil, and behind him, all of them. Silent ranks of understanding and respect, impassive behind their masks but with their minds ablaze at the wrong The Unknown suffered.
Unable to speak, Cil placed a hand on The Unknown’s shoulder and squeezed, his head inclined very slightly. The Unknown locked eyes with him for a moment, then looked past him to those behind, a shiver running through his back at the power standing there in utter quiet. His eyes misted again, this time in gratitude.
‘You can escape your calling,’ he said. ‘But the price is high, believe me. The pain of separation is great. I can still feel you though I can’t be with you. Your choice will come.’
He walked through the Protectors who turned and followed him back to the Manse. His choice was made but, leaving his grave without another glance, he realised he had another but he had no idea whether he had the courage to make it. Time, as always, would tell.
‘If you think you’re taking hundreds of Protectors through the rip, you’re wrong,’ said Hirad once Denser had summarised thus far his fruitless discussions with Styliann. The former Lord of the Mount had flatly refused to let the Raven mages have sight of Septern’s texts and Hirad considered it was only a matter of time before Styliann decided he could create and cast the magic himself. Hirad, like the rest of The Raven, was uncomfortably aware that they were hopelessly outnumbered.