The Raven’s chairs were still arrayed in front of the fire but every day The Unknown moved them so he could practise with his trademark double-handed sword in private. If there was one thing The Unknown’s experience had taught him, it was that nothing in Balaian life was ever predictable.
Rhob pushed open the door and came in, carrying with one hand a steaming jug, mugs and a plate of food on a tray. In the other was a shovel, full of glowing embers. The Unknown took both from him with a nod of thanks.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll clear up out front,’ said Rhob.
‘Thank you.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Just a little cold,’ said The Unknown but he knew there was more. He had seen pain in Denser’s eyes and an exhaustion forced upon him by desperation.
He quickly lit the fire, pressed a mug of coffee into the mage’s hands and placed the bread and cheese on a table within arm’s reach. He sat in his own chair and waited for Denser to speak.
The Xeteskian looked terrible. Beard untrimmed, black hair wild where it protruded from his skull cap, face pale, bloodshot eyes ringed dark and lips tinged blue. His eyes fidgeted over the room, unable to settle, and he constantly fought to frame words but no sound came. He’d pushed himself to the limit and there was no beyond. Mana stamina was finite, even for mages of Denser’s extraordinary ability, and a single miscalculation could prove fatal, particularly under ShadowWings.
The Unknown had felt a tie to Denser ever since his time as the mage’s Given during his lost days as a Protector. And looking at Denser now, he found he couldn’t stay silent.
‘I understand something’s driven you to get here as fast as you can but killing yourself isn’t going to help. Even you can’t cast indefinitely.’
Denser nodded and lifted his mug to trembling lips, gasping as the hot liquid scalded his throat.
‘I was so close. Didn’t want to stop outside the City. We’d have lost another day.’ His numbed lips stole the clarity from his words. He made to say more but instead coughed violently. The Unknown leaned in and grabbed the mug before he slopped coffee on his hands.
‘Take your time, Denser. You’re here now. I’ll find you a bed when you need it. Be calm.’
‘Can’t be calm,’ he said. ‘They’re after my girl. Erienne’s taken her away. We’ve got to find her first or they’ll kill her. God’s, she’s not evil. She’s just a little girl. I need The Raven.’
The Unknown started. Denser’s tumble of words had shaken him every which way. But it was the solution that troubled him almost as much as the problem. The Raven had disbanded. All their lives had moved on. Reformation was unthinkable.
‘Think hard, Denser, and slow down. I need to hear this from the start.’
Night on the southern slopes of the Balan Mountains, half a day’s ride from the largely rebuilt town of Blackthorne. The stars patterned the sky, moon casting wan light, keeping back full dark.
Hirad Coldheart tracked down the steep path, his movement all but silent. It was a path he could traverse blindfold if he had to but this time, speed and stealth were of the essence over the treacherous mud and smooth stone. Hunters were coming again and, like those that had come before, had to be stopped. Yet even if these latest fell as had all the others, Hirad knew that wouldn’t put a stop to the stupidity.
Not many dared the task but the numbers were increasing, as was the complexity and technicality of their planning, as information on habits and strike points filtered through Balaia, falling on interested ears. It sickened him but he understood what drove these men and women.
Greed. And the respect that would be afforded those first to bring back the ultimate hunter’s prize. The head of a dragon. It was why he couldn’t leave the Kaan even if he wanted to. Not that they were particularly vulnerable. But there was always the chance. Humans were nothing if not tenacious and ingenious; and this latest group marked another development.
Hirad still found it hard to conceive of minds that so quickly forgot the debt they owed the Kaan dragons; and it had been The Unknown who had put it in context when delivering word that the first attack was being prepared, after overhearing a drunken boast in The Rookery.
‘You shouldn’t be surprised, Hirad,’ he’d said. ‘Everything will ultimately have its price and there are those who will choose never to believe what the Kaan did for Balaia. And there are those who don’t care. They only know the value of a commodity. Honour and respect reap no benefit in gold.’
The words had ignited Hirad’s fury exactly as The Unknown had intended. It was what kept him sharp and one step ahead of the hunters. They had tried magic, poison, fire and frontal assault in their ignorance. Now they used what had been learned by the deaths and by the watchers. And for the first time, Hirad was worried.
A party of six hunters; three warriors, a mage and two engineers, was moving carefully and slowly into the foothills below the Choul, where the dragons lived. Their route had taken them away from any population that might have alerted Hirad sooner and they brought with them a crafted ballista, designed to fire steel-tipped wooden stakes.
Their plan was simple, as were all the best-laid. Unless Hirad was sorely in error, they planned to launch their attack this night, knowing the Kaan flew to hunt and feed under cover of darkness. The ballista would be positioned under a common flight path and it had the power to wound, and perhaps cripple with a lucky shot.
Hirad wasn’t prepared to take the risk so descended to meet them before clearing the Kaan to fly. The hunters had made two mistakes in their plan. They hadn’t factored Hirad into their thinking and only one of their number was elven. They had placed themselves at the mercy of the night and would soon discover the night had none.
Hirad watched them through a cleft boulder. They were roughly thirty feet below him and a hundred yards distant. The barbarian was able to track their movement against the dull grey of the landscape by the hooded lantern they carried, the creaking of the ballista’s wheels and the hoof-falls of the horses that pulled it.
They were nearing a small open space where, Hirad guessed, they planned to set up the ballista. The slope there was slight and a butt of rock provided an ideal anchor point. Hirad knew what had to be done.
Backing up a short distance, he moved right and down into a shallow ditch that ran parallel to the small plateau. With his eyes at plateau level, he crept along its edge and waited, poised, sword sheathed and both hands free.
The mage led the horses up the incline on the near side, a warrior overseeing their progress on the other. The two engineers walked behind the ballista with the final pair of hunters bringing up the rear.
Hirad could hear the horses breathing hard, their hooves echoing dully through mufflers tied around their feet. The wheels of the ballista creaked and scraped as it approached, despite constant oiling by the engineers, and the odd word of warning and encouragement filtered up the line.
Hirad readied himself. Just before it levelled out, the path became a steep ramp for perhaps twenty yards. It would be slippery after the day’s showers. As the hunters approached it, they slowed, the mage out in front, hands on both sets of reins, urging the horses up.
‘Keep it moving,’ came a hiss from below, loud in the still night air.
‘Gently does it,’ said another.
The mage appeared over the lip. Hirad surged on to the plateau and dived for his legs, whipping them away. The mage crashed to the ground. Hirad was on him before he could shout and hammered a fist into his temple. The mage’s head cracked against stone and he lay still.
Racing low around the front of the suddenly skittish horses, he pulled his sword from his scabbard. The warrior on their other side had only half turned at the commotion and was in no state to defend himself. Hirad whipped his blade into the man’s side and as he went down screaming, the barbarian leant in close.