‘Let me assure you I am laughing at nothing but Hirad’s capacity to surprise. Tell us all where the catalysts are, Hirad, please.’
Hirad shrugged. ‘Somewhere between here and the farm we stayed at. I don’t think I’ll be any more specific. And before you bluster and shout, let me explain that I am sick and tired of people trying to run my life and so I have given The Raven a little bargaining counter against further betrayal.’
‘But surely you know that was a rogue Master from Xetesk!’ Vuldaroq thumped the palms of his hands on his chair. ‘And now the most valuable pieces in Balaia are unguarded.’
‘And untraceable,’ said Hirad. ‘And I don’t care who it was that was coming to kill us. The fact is that there are only three mages in the entire world that I trust and they are all sitting with The Raven.
Now we need to get through the pass without wasting any more time. If your intelligence is right, the Wesmen will be at our borders in four days or less and I don’t want to meet them in the middle of the Blackthorne Mountains.’
Hirad took in everyone. Denser was smiling, The Unknown was gazing studiously at the back of Denser’s neck, Ilkar was staring at him with jaw slack and eyes wide, and the delegation sat in mute fury. All except one. Heryst. He was nodding and was the first to rise.
‘Congratulations, Hirad Coldheart. You have out-thought us all.
For now. It’s a shame you mistrust us, because we really are on your side, and the side of Balaia,’ he said. ‘I only hope for your sake that your mind is as alert in the days to come. The game for our land is about to be played out and Dawnthief is the only card we have. It would be criminal to lose it.’ He led the delegation from the Marquee.
‘Are you absolutely out of your mind?’ Ilkar waited until only The Raven remained in the Marquee.
‘We got the result we wanted,’ said Hirad. ‘Why?’
‘Why?’ Ilkar spluttered. ‘Have you any idea how powerful Styliann is? All the delegation for that matter. Yet you have to go rubbing him up the wrong way, and as if that wasn’t enough, you’ve planted Dawnthief in a bloody field somewhere. What, are you thinking it’ll grow and bear fruit or something?’
Hirad smiled again. He glanced at Denser, who had returned to his shell and was staring into nowhere.
‘Ease up, Ilkar. Listen—’ He broke off. ‘Will they be listening?’ He jerked a thumb.
‘I’d expect nothing less,’ said Ilkar. Hirad raised his eyebrows. Ilkar sighed, spoke a few words and made an enveloping motion with his arms. The sounds from outside the Marquee faded to nothing. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Where exactly between here and the farmhouse have you put the catalysts?’
Hirad held his right thumb and forefinger and inch apart. ‘About this far.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Ilkar blinked slowly.
Hirad pulled a chain from under his shirt. From it hung the Understone Pass Commander’s Badge and the Dordovan Ring of Authority.
‘Grow and bear fruit! What do you take me for?’
A transformation had taken place in Understone since the arrival of Darrick. Drainage had been restored and the main street was merely sole deep in mud, aided in its drying by a stiff wind and a hold-off of rain. Around the town itself, a city of tents and corralling had sprung, housing the four-College cavalry, its horses and, latterly, the five thousand foot soldiers who were the advance force detailed to defend the eastern end of Understone Pass from Wesmen incursion.
Defensive positions had been raised out of bowshot of the mouth of the pass, from where there was nothing but silence. The mages he had sent in under CloakedWalks had not returned. The quiet was disconcerting. It was as if they were waiting for something more than just reinforcement before attacking. It made Darrick uneasy, and when Darrick was uneasy, there was usually magic in the air.
The Raven arrived in the company of thirty Xeteskian mages two days after leaving Triverne Lake. Darrick was waiting for them, and in the evening before the attempt was to be made to take the pass, he heard the details of Xetesk’s new offensive spell. He and Hirad sparred in the main street later as he tried to shake off the images the mages drew. He had taken an instant like to the Raven man and was envious of his role and the sheer determination he saw in his eyes.
The next morning would see the Wesmen a little over a day from the pass. He found himself irritated that they couldn’t wait for the maximum number to be inside when the spell was cast. And it wasn’t just to do with the fact that The Raven had to gain quick passage to the other side either. It was to do with the correct alignment of dimensions. He hoped someone would be good enough to explain it to him sometime.
The wind blew from the south, along the Bay of Gyernath. The afternoon skies were clear but cloud was gathering, thick, dark and ominous. Rain was already falling far out in the southern ocean, dark grey reaching from sea to sky. It would hit land by nightfall.
The Barons Blackthorne and Gresse stood on the eastern shore of the bay where the shingle gave way to sand and sloped steeply into the lapping waters of low tide. To their right, the Blackthorne Mountains towered sheer from the water, beginning their six-hundred-mile journey to the Triverne Inlet and Balaia’s northern coast. At their backs, and perhaps two hours’ ride north-east, was the walled town of Blackthorne and its castle.
The seat of Balaia’s most powerful Baron was the principal hurdle in the way of any Wesmen move to Understone to the north and, to a lesser extent, Gyernath to the south-east. Its seven thousand inhabitants were principally from mining or farming backgrounds, giving Blackthorne considerable muscle in addition to his standing militia.
With Gresse’s four hundred men and mercenaries, the defence of southern Balaia numbered around one thousand regular and two thousand reserve soldiers, and they would need every one. Word from Understone suggested that as many as six thousand Wesmen would attempt the bay crossing. The battle would be hard and bloody.
Gresse and Blackthorne stood flanked by mages and aides, the former providing EagleSight-augmented information to add to what could be made out in miniature on the other side of the bay. The sand was black with boats and Wesmen.
‘There are more than six thousand there, surely,’ said Gresse.
One of the mages turned to him. ‘It’s impossible to say. They are stretched over three miles but that’s a function of the number of boats they have assembled. More are arriving from the south-west all the time.’
Gresse squinted and peered across the bay. The shore seemed to be crawling, shifting, moving. Individuals were impossible to make out, but the mass was there for all to see. Beside him, Blackthorne cleared his throat.
In his mid-forties, Baron Blackthorne was tall and slim with an angular face, heavy brows, black hair and beard. He rarely smiled, suffered no fools and carried his worries in his walk, which was head down, shoulders hunched and very fast. Like Gresse, over his breeches, shirt and leather tunic, he wore a heavy cloak, at which the wind picked.
‘Is equipment being loaded?’ he asked, the weariness in his tone suggesting this wasn’t a problem with which he should really be concerned.
‘Yes, my Lord,’ replied his senior mage.
‘Then we can expect them to put to sea quite soon. Under cover of darkness, one suspects.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Hmm.’ He licked his lips and smoothed the beard along his jawline. ‘I want as many of those boats sunk as is humanly possible without overstretching our resources. HotRain, FlameOrbs, Bow-Wave, IceWind, whatever. Take half of our mages and keep one hundred guards. I need wards in the sand, I need the first boats to land set aflame and turned around to obstruct the beach.
‘Do not be overrun. Retreat to the castle as soon as the Wesmen come ashore in large numbers. They won’t have horses, so you should be able to outrun them. Is that all clear?’ The man nodded. ‘Then Gresse and I will return to town. We will form our principal defence there. Baron Gresse?’