Noonshade Page 3

  Sha-Kaan beat faster, a warning sounding in his head. From a bank of cloud behind the rip, a single dragon from the Brood Naik swept toward the undulating mass. His speed took him beyond the rough guard, his call of victory cut off as he plunged into the gate and was lost from sight.

  Others made to follow but Sha-Kaan pulsed them to hold. “I will deal,” he said. “Hold them at bay. Do not surrender the gate.” He swept up and around the rip, judging its size and depth before angling his wings and plunging through.

  The journey was a miasma of pressure, blindness, half-grasped messages and near knowledge of what lay outside the corridor. Sha-Kaan exploded into the skies of Balaia and immediately felt the presence of two beings known to him. The enemy Naik dragon loomed large in his consciousness and he bellowed his call to fight, knowing the Naik could not refuse. The other presence was smaller, much smaller, but no less significant. Hirad Coldheart. There would have to be words. As he dived on the Naik, Sha-Kaan pulsed the command to stop.

  Ilkar's skin crawled, his fear complemented by total helplessness. At every moment, he expected more stillness, more dragons, more terror. Behind him, he knew, Styliann and the rest of The Raven were staring out into the sky. For the first time in their long and successful career, all they could do was watch.

  The fight was fast and violent. The two dragons closed at a frightening speed, the smaller one from below, the larger, much larger, golden animal dived from above.

  “Sha-Kaan,” breathed Ilkar, recognising him by the movement of his head.

  Sha-Kaan tore through Balaia's cloud-scattered sky, bellowing rage and threat. He angled a wing the instant before clashing with the rust brown enemy, the manoeuvre taking him below and, as he passed the belly, he breathed, fire coursing the length of the shorter dragon.

  The scream of pain cracked the air, the wounded beast spiralling upward, neck twisting, head searching for its tormentor. But it looked in the wrong direction. Sha-Kaan, his mouth closed to extinguish his fire, turned up and back sharply to come around behind his foe. While the rust brown dragon, disorientated and in pain, searched for him, Sha-Kaan stormed across the dividing space, beat his wings to steady himself above his prey, arched his neck and struck down with terrific force on the base of his prey's skull. The rust-brown convulsed along the seventy foot length of its body, claws scrabbling briefly on thin air, wings thrashing wildly, its bark turning to a gurgle as its body, now a dead weight, fell from the sky.

  Ilkar watched, his breath held, as Sha-Kaan dropped with his kill, not releasing it until they had both reached roof level. Then, with a final twist and deep growl of triumph, he swung away to hover as the dead dragon thudded into the ground in the central square, shivering the earth under Ilkar's feet. A huge cloud of dust billowed up, the waiting pyres of bodies slipping, a grotesque movement of the dead.

  Unease swept across Parve. A gut-turning feeling that so much was terribly wrong. In the quiet that followed the fight, the only sound clearly heard was the beating of Sha-Kaan's wings as he circled his victim. This close, the victorious dragon was truly enormous. Almost twice the size of his foe, Sha-Kaan dominated the sky, eclipsing even the rip with his raw power. Three times around he went before, with a long, guttural roar, he swept low into the square, passed scant feet above the corpse of the dragon, turned into the air and flew off directly after Hirad.

  “Oh no.” Ilkar started moving into the light.

  “What good can you do?” Styliann's voice, though quiet with shock, still carried power, menace and cynicism.

  Ilkar turned. “You don't understand, do you? People like you never will. I've no idea what I can do but I will do something. I can't leave him to face that thing alone. He's Raven.”

  The elven mage ran out into the square, following in the footsteps of The Unknown. After a pause, Thraun and Will did the same. Denser slumped back to the ground, his energy spent, his eyes locked on the still mound of the dragon Sha-Kaan had killed so effortlessly. Erienne crouched beside him, cradling his head.

  “Gods in the sky,” he whispered. “What have I done?”

  Hirad lay with his hands over his ears as the cries of battle in the sky slammed around inside his head. When it was all over, he moved groggily to his knees and dared to look back toward Parve. He vaguely noted The Unknown Warrior running toward him, shouting, but his attention was fixed on the shape of Sha-Kaan, wheeling in the sky over the dead city. The dragon's sudden dive jarred him from his almost hypnotic state and the sight of him appearing over the near buildings struck a fear in him deeper than he had ever felt before. His nightmare was about to become reality. He did his part. He picked himself up and ran.

  Hirad could feel the rush of Sha-Kaan's approach in his mind long before the shadow swooped over him. Once again, he resigned himself to death. He stopped running and looked up as the huge dragon, over twenty times his length, turned in the air, neck coiling and uncoiling, head always fixed on his quarry.

  He stood in the air for a moment before, with a lazy beat of his wings, landing lightly on the ground, golden body folding forward so that all four limbs supported him as he towered over Hirad. Sha-Kaan's wings tucked behind him and his head reared before shooting forward to knock Hirad from his feet. Dazed for a moment, Hirad could sense the anger and looked directly into Sha-Kaan's eyes and was surprised when he didn't see his death reflected there.

  The great dragon's head was still, the mound of his body sparkling in the sunlight, obliterating any other view. Hirad didn't bother to rise but thought of speaking until Sha-Kaan's nostrils flared, sending twin lances of hot foul air into his face.

  The dragon regarded him for some time, feet shifting for comfort, effortlessly clawing deep rents in the packed dry ground.

  “I would say ‘well met,’ Hirad Coldheart but it is no such thing.”

  “I—” began Hirad.

  “Be quiet!” Sha-Kaan's voice rolled across the Torn Wastes and clattered around the inside of Hirad's skull. “What you think is not important. What you have done is.” The dragon closed his eyes and breathed in, a slow considered action. “That something so small could cause so much damage. You have put my Brood at risk.”

  “I don't understand.”

  Sha-Kaan's eyes opened to spear Hirad with his massive gaze.

  “Of course you don't. But still you stole from me.”

  “I didn't—”

  “Quiet!” thundered Sha-Kaan. “Be quiet and listen to me. Be silent until I order you to speak.”

  Hirad licked his lips. He could hear The Unknown slowing as he neared him, his feet cracking the dead earth and vegetation. He waved his hand behind him to keep his friend back.

  Sha-Kaan spoke again, his eyes great pools of blue ire, his nostrils wide and firing repellent breath through Hirad's hair from a distance of less than three feet. The barbarian felt small, though small was hardly a strong enough word. Insignificant. And yet the imperious beast chose to speak to him rather than scorch the skin from his body and the flesh from his bones.

  But there was no mistaking Sha-Kaan's mood. This was not the dragon who had seemed so amused by Hirad's presence at their first meeting beyond the dragonene dimension gate at Taranspike Castle. The meeting that had led The Raven inextricably to Parve and the deployment of Dawnthief. Now he was angry. Angry and anxious. Not for Hirad, for himself. The barbarian felt he'd hear nothing to his advantage.

  He was right.

  “I warned you,” said Sha-Kaan. “I told you that I was keeping from you that with which you could destroy yourselves and my Brood with you. You chose not to listen. And now the results of your actions stain the sky in my dimension and in yours.

  “There, Hirad Coldheart, is the problem. It is typical, I suppose, that you should contrive to save yourselves while condemning Skies know how many of my Brood to death in your defence. But your salvation can only be temporary. Because when my Brood is gone, you will be defenceless. One dragon here, bent upon your destruction, is all it will take. A
nd there are thousands waiting to tear this place apart. Thousands.” Hirad gazed into the yawning depths of Sha-Kaan's eyes, his mind a blank.

  “You have no conception of what you have done, have you?” Sha-Kaan blinked very slowly, breaking Hirad's concentration. “Speak.”

  “No, I haven't,” said Hirad. “All I do know is that we had to find and cast Dawnthief or the Wytch Lords and Wesmen would have swept us aside. You can't blame us for trying to save our own lives.”

  “And that is as far as you think. The ripples of your actions are no concern as you rest in the glory of your immediate triumph, are they?”

  “We were bound to use all the weapons at our disposal,” said Hirad a little shortly.

  “This weapon was not at your disposal,” said Sha-Kaan. “And it was used inaccurately. You stole it from me.”

  “It was there to be taken,” replied Hirad. “And inaccurate or not, we used it to save Balaia.”

  Sha-Kaan stretched his mouth wide and laughed. The sound cracked across the Torn Wastes, setting petrified animals to flight, stopping The Unknown in his tracks and blowing Hirad onto his back. The laughter stopped abruptly, its aftershocks echoing like thunder against cliffs as they smacked against Parve's buildings.

  The great dragon stretched his neck, head travelling slowly up Hirad's prone form, drool dripping from his half-open maw, until it came to rest over his face.

  Hirad pushed himself up on his elbows to look into those eyes that blotted out the light. He quailed, almost able to touch the fangs that could so easily rip out his life, each easily the size of his forearm.

  “Save Balaia,” repeated Sha-Kaan, voice quiet and cold. “You have done nothing of the sort. Instead, you have torn a hole between our worlds and it is a hole the Kaan cannot defend for ever. And when we fail, who will defend you from your total destruction or abject slavery, do you think?” Sha-Kaan's head angled up. Hirad followed his gaze to The Unknown and Ilkar, Will and Thraun who now stood a few paces away, scared but not bowed. Hirad smiled, pride swelling his heart.

  “Who are these?” demanded Sha-Kaan.

  “They're The Raven, most of it.”

  “Friends?”

  “Yes.”

  Sha-Kaan retracted his neck to take them all in.

  “Then listen, Hirad Coldheart and The Raven. Listen closely and I shall tell you what must be done to save us all.”

  The Lord Tessaya walked the streets of Understone, a bottle of white grape spirit in his hand. Streets churned by fight, blood and rain, now baking hard under a hot sun which set the mud into grotesque sculptures depicting the imprint of death.

  All around him, sounds of celebration echoed from the lush green slopes surrounding the town. A dozen cook fires crackled and spat, smoke spiralling into the partly cloudy sky. The shouts of sparring and the harsh laughter of storytelling rose above the general level of noise, but some sounds were missing—the screams of the tortured, the weeping of the raped and the pleas of the dying.

  Tessaya was pleased. For he had not come to Understone to devastate and destroy. That endgame he reserved for the Colleges. No, he came to Understone to conquer and to rule. The first step to his domination of the whole of Balaia. A domination he could enjoy alone now that the Wytch Lords were gone.

  And he would not rule by terror. In a land too large for the hand of fear, that was the way of fools. His way was simple. Control population centres through weight of numbers. Install trusted men to overlord the people and instill their own rules and discipline based on his model. Control gatherings, control talk. Be visible. The iron hand. Leave little hope and prompt no righteous anger.

  Tessaya chewed his lip. It was a departure from the traditional Wesmen way but, as far as he saw it, the old way brought nothing but conflict and division. If the Wesmen were to govern Balaia, they had to adapt.

  Reaching the end of the village. Tessaya paused a moment and drank from his bottle. Before him ran the trails that burrowed deep into the heart of Eastern Balaia. The arteries down which he would march to victory.

  Rising on each side, gentle green slopes rolled away toward the stunning flatlands that were home to Lord Denebre, an old trading partner. There, the farmland was rich, the animals plentiful and the peace complete. For now.

  There were decisions to be made but first there were questions to be asked. Tessaya headed left up a slope to where Understone's defenders had built their barracks, now their prison. Two dozen canvas and wood structures, built for two hundred men. Six of them now housed around three hundred prisoners, leaving plenty of room for his men, those few that wanted shelter. Men and women were separated and the wounded Wesmen lay side by side with Eastern Balaians. Enemies they might be but they deserved honour and the chance to live after choosing to fight over the coward's route of surrender.

  Walking toward the barracks, he noted with pleasure the bearing of the guards. Ramrod straight and placed at even intervals surrounding the prison huts. He nodded at the man who opened the door for him.

  “My Lord,” said the man, bowing his head in deference.

  Inside, the barrack hut was cramped, stuffy and hot. Men sprawled on bunk and floor, some played cards, others spoke in huddles. One thing linked them all. It was the face of defeat, the humiliation of abject surrender.

  As Tessaya entered, quiet spread along the length of the hut until all those scared eyes stared at him, waiting for him to deliver their fate. The contempt with which he regarded them was palpable.

  “Time to talk,” he said in faultless pure-East dialect. One man moved through the throng. He was fat, greying and too short for a warrior. Perhaps in the past he had been powerful but now his mud-stained armour covered nothing more frightening than blubber.

  “I am Kerus, garrison commander of Understone. You may address your questions to me.”

  “And I am Tessaya, Lord of the unified tribes. You will address me as ‘my Lord.’” Kerus said nothing, merely inclined his head. Tessaya could see the fear in his eyes. He should have been put out to grass a long time ago. It was indicative of the East's complacency that they chose a career desk soldier to command the guard of the most important tactical landmark in the whole of Balaia.

  “I am surprised that you are the spokesman,” said Tessaya. “Is your commander so fearful of us that he still orders you to hide him?”

  “Understone's defensive general is dead, my Lord,” said Kerus, surprise edging his tone. “I am the most senior officer left alive.”

  Tessaya frowned. His intelligence suggested the army had surrendered long before the command post was taken. Perhaps the other rumours were true and Darrick had died leading the line but it seemed unlikely in such a critical engagement.

  “Dead?”

  “At the western end of the pass.”

  “Ah.” Tessaya's frown deepened. Something wasn't right. “No matter.” He would get to the bottom of it shortly. Darrick was a man whose whereabouts he needed to know. “Tell me, I'm curious. Was there an incursion into my lands before we retook Understone Pass?” He knew there had to have been but an idea of numbers would be useful.

  “Why are you asking me, my Lord?” replied Kerus.

  “Because you are the commanding officer. You are also my prisoner. I would advise against the futility of refusing me.”

  “You know as well as I do that our people penetrated your Wytch Lords’ citadel. That's why you lost your magic.” Kerus did his best to sneer.

  “But not this battle, eh Kerus?” Tessaya's face dropped to a snarl. “That is the second time you have failed to address me correctly. Do not make me count to three.” He relaxed his stance enough to drink from his bottle, taking in the angry faces in front of him.

  “An impressive move. Though I must confess, I had my reservations about the strength of Parve's defence. I'm afraid too many senior Shamen felt it a waste of good warriors. How many did you send?”

  “Not many. My Lord.”

  “How many?”

  “Fo
ur hundred cavalry, a few Protectors, a handful of mages and The Raven. My Lord.”

  Tessaya took it all in, quietly assimilating the numbers and knowing that they should have been far short of enough to trouble Parve's defence, let alone the Wytch Lords. He made exaggerated assumptions about the power of the mage contingent and still couldn't make it add up. A nagging worry edged at his mind. He'd seen the power of the spell that had taken Understone Pass, the water magic that had obliterated so many of his kinsmen. Had they used something equally appalling or even worse to destroy the Wytch Lords?

  He shuddered inside. Rumours of an attempt to recover a spell of legendary power, the spell the Shamen called “Tia-fere,” Nightfall, had cast doubt over the sense of the invasion three months before. But surely if the spell had been recovered, he wouldn't be standing here.

  “The Raven.” Tessaya mulled the name over. Good warriors. Never to be underestimated as it seemed they had been by the Wytch Lords and their council of fawning Shamen.

  “Why did The Raven travel to Parve?” he asked.

  “Isn't it obvious?” Kerus wore his slightly smug expression once more. “They carried with them the means to destroy your Masters. It is also obvious that they succeeded. My Lord.”

  Tessaya wasn't sure the probable destruction of the Wytch Lords bothered him. All he knew was that the Shamen, having lost their fire, were once again in their proper place, occupying the shadows behind the tribal Lords and warriors.

  What did worry him was the fact that a few hundred men and mages had penetrated to the very heart of Wesmen faith. An act that had to take a good deal of tactical skill, power and bravery to succeed. A chill stole across Tessaya's back as events started to fall into place. The rumours started to make sense—the Shadow Company patrolling the highlands, the dread force marauding south of Parve and the horsemen who never ceased to ride. It all happened after the water attack in the pass. The chill deepened. Only one man would have the audacity to believe he could reach Parve with a few hundred men.