‘Well, my friends,’ said Blackthorne. ‘I think it’s time we went to collect our wounded. They would be so much more comfortable here.’
He wheeled his horse, the cavalry following suit. It was then the cries went up. Forging towards them, three shapes came out of the shadow of the sky over the Blackthorne Mountains, travelling at extraordinary pace. Gresse thought to turn to ask an elf but it was clear to them all what was coming.
‘Dismount! Dismount!’ The Captain roared as the horses, sensing new and awful danger, began to stamp or buck. The order was obeyed immediately and the horses, once free of human control, took flight, scattering in the face of the threat from above.
‘Dear Gods,’ said Gresse, a painful lump in his throat, his heart beating wildly. He was sweating. The backs of his hands, his forehead, his back and his breath stuttered in his lungs. He couldn’t move and beside him Blackthorne didn’t either.
The dragons closed, the gold of their bodies sparkling in the muted rainswept sky. Lower they came, and lower, and one emitted a piercing bark as they raced overhead, swooping by. Gresse spun around, almost losing his footing. He could have sworn he heard laughter as they passed.
He shuddered as they disappeared behind the hill line and turned back to Blackthorne. The Baron’s smile split his face and he clapped a trembling hand on Gresse’s shoulder.
‘What is it?’
‘Didn’t you see them?’ he asked, pointing after the dragons.
‘See them? I could hardly bloody miss them. I almost filled my trousers.’
‘No.’ And Blackthorne began to laugh. ‘Riding them. Oh my dear Gresse, we’ve done it. That was The Raven.’
‘You’re . . .’ Gresse looked again. The dragons had disappeared. Relief flooded him.
‘My Lords?’ It was the cavalry Captain. His helm was off and his face pale beneath it. He held a small, ornate presentation case in his hands.
‘Yes, Captain,’ said Blackthorne.
‘I thought perhaps we could all do with some of this.’ He opened the case to reveal a small bottle of Blackthorne grape spirit and four shot glasses. ‘I’ve been keeping it. For a special occasion. I think this qualifies.’
‘My dear boy,’ said Gresse, his mind singing, his head light as if he’d imbibed a good deal already. ‘You have made an ageing man very happy.’
Hirad could see the opposing armies but he couldn’t see the ruins of the Manse. Sha-Kaan arrowed down, sending one more chill of fear through Hirad as he felt himself slide just that little bit further down the neck than was good for his heart. He could see where the Great Kaan was going to land and so could those on the ground. He cheered as men scattered, hearing terrified cries and hapless orders for calm float up on the wind as they closed.
Sha-Kaan lifted his neck, angled his body and thumped his legs down. Hirad immediately snatched a dagger from his belt and cut at his ropes, suddenly desperate to feel the grass beneath his feet, slicked with blood though it may be. The Great Kaan lowered his neck and Hirad slid off, his legs failing to hold his weight. Immediately, arms were about his shoulders, helping him to his feet, every muscle in thigh and calf screaming for rest.
He turned around and came face to face with Darrick. He smiled and the two men hugged, Hirad thumping the other’s back.
‘Still alive then?’ he said as they separated.
‘Still alive,’ agreed Darrick. ‘Listen, celebrations later. For now, there’s a Wesmen army just the other side of this dragon.’
Hirad laughed until tears streamed down his cheeks. ‘Sorry,’ he said, wiping his eyes. ‘What a choice of phrase.’ He steadied himself. ‘Look, the war’s over. You need to negotiate Wesmen withdrawal from east of the Blackthorne Mountains. If they don’t want to play, I can arrange a demonstration, if you get my meaning.’
Darrick smiled and clapped him on the shoulders. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He strode off to meet the Wesmen.
Hirad ambled to Sha-Kaan’s head where the rest of The Raven had gathered to watch Darrick talk to Tessaya. He laid a hand on the dragon’s head.
‘Thank you, Great Kaan.’
The old dragon opened one eye and fixed him with a myopic stare. ‘You have saved the Kaan, you and your Raven. It is I who should be thanking you.’
‘So why the sadness? You don’t sound at all happy.’
‘We have lost the Manse and that is a great loss to us for it contained a gateway and that gateway, like the one in your sky, has gone. I am unsure where to look for more.’
‘I don’t think I understand,’ said Hirad.
‘He’s saying he thinks they’re stuck here,’ said Erienne. ‘At least for now.’
‘But you can get them home, can’t you?’ asked Hirad. ‘Soon?’ His eyes took in all three mages. Their heads shook.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ilkar.
Hirad faced Sha-Kaan once again. ‘You knew this might happen, didn’t you? That’s why you came here, to see if Septern’s rip still worked?’
‘Of course,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘But what are the lives of three dragons in the cause of a Brood. It was a small sacrifice.’
Hirad was lost for words. ‘We’ll get you back. Somehow.’ He smiled. ‘After all, we are The Raven.’
‘Does your conceit know no end?’ asked Denser, his eyes shining.
‘No,’ said Hirad. He took it all in. Darrick talking to Tessaya, the Wesman Lord nodding, his eyes fixed on the trio of Kaan that rested in front of him. The Unknown, shaking hands with every surviving Protector. Denser and Erienne in each other’s arms, their faces alight, their eyes speaking love. Sha-Kaan, his head up and surveying his new home, his bright blue eyes missing nothing, his thoughts dominated by triumph, sadness and great hope. And Ilkar, arms folded, smiling to himself and shaking his head at the thought of it all.
They had done it. The Raven. Again. He conceded it was hard to take in.
Only Thraun was missing. The big blond warrior had disappeared almost immediately they had landed, slipping off the dragon and moving soundlessly away. He needed to be alone. Hirad understood that. He’d make himself known when he was ready.
A shout of alarm rang from the Balaian army. Fingers pointed back towards the demolished Wesmen camp. Hirad followed their line.
‘Leave him,’ he ordered. ‘He’ll not harm you.’
Thraun loped up to Hirad, who crouched in front of him and stroked his head.
‘Wouldn’t have done that if you were in human form,’ he said. A sad smile touched his lips. ‘Oh, Thraun, what the hell have you done?’
The wolf regarded him solemnly, his yellow-flecked eyes moist. He sniffed the air and growled, a friendly sound that went right through Hirad. For a moment, he thought he might cry.
‘I don’t know if you can understand me, Thraun, but remember this,’ he said, his voice thick, the rest of the world gone for a moment as he stared at the shapechanger. ‘You will always be Raven. And we will always remember you. Good luck, both now and in whatever faces you. May your soul find peace.’ He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Ilkar. The hand squeezed but the elf said nothing.
Thraun stepped forward, licked Hirad’s face, turned and trotted away.
Support, help and encouragement are so important and thank you to all those who gave them so unstintingly. But there are some I should mention in person: Tara Falk who keeps me going; Peter Robinson, John Cross, Dave Mutton and Dick Whichelow for being there any time; Paul Fawcett and Lisa Edney for tolerance and patience above and beyond the call of duty; William Holley who sent me my first piece of ‘fan mail’; and Simon Spanton whose sympathetic editing improves everything I write. It wouldn’t be any fun without you all.