Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 111 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

He hurried to the river bank and scooped up some water, collected small twigs for kindling on the way back and built a tiny fire, using Mercuun’s tinderbox to light the wet wood. He heated the water above the guttering flame, using a cloth to protect his hands from the hot metal.

When the water steamed and bubbled, he dropped some leaves into the mug, their rich fresh scent blooming in his nostrils.

‘Almost ready, Meru,’ he said, though his friend couldn’t hear him. He was moving though, and close to consciousness again, a low moan escaping his lips.

When the infusion was ready, Rebraal decanted the murky green liquid into the skin, added some seeds from the casimir fruit and kept back the leaf sludge. While the drink cooled, he tipped the sludge into a palm leaf, blew on it until he could just touch it and spread it on Mercuun’s fractures, having cut his clothes where he had to. The remainder he smeared on his own shoulder.

Mercuun’s eyes flickered open. ‘I’m dying, Rebraal.’

‘No, you’re not. Now let me support your head while you drink this.’

He knelt down and lifted Mercuun’s head into his lap. The broken elf gulped down the infusion, knowing the powerful sedative would numb his pain.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked when the skin was empty.

‘Carry you home, Meru. You need healing.’

‘But your shoulder.’ Mercuun lifted an arm weakly.

‘It’ll be all right. Trust me.’

‘Yniss keep you, Rebraal.’

‘And you, Meru. How do you feel?’

‘The pain is fading.’

‘Good, then let’s get going.’

Rebraal packed Mercuun’s sack and slung it over his right shoulder before stooping to pick him up. He felt his own wound give and the blood start to flow but the leaf sludge masked him from all but a dull ache.

Mercuun hung in his arms like a dead weight, his head cradled against Rebraal’s shoulder and chest.

‘Not far now,’ said Rebraal. ‘Try to rest.’

A chuckle trickled from Mercuun’s mouth. ‘Don’t lie. I may be sick but I haven’t completely lost my senses. You’re the one who should be resting.’

Rebraal gritted his teeth and set off. It was almost ten miles to the village through dense rainforest, up steep hillsides, down muddy valleys and along a treacherous stream course. Offering a prayer to Yniss to give him the strength to survive, Rebraal left the River Ix behind him.

Chapter 13

Dusk had fallen and the cacophony that greeted the night invaded the rainforest as it always had and always would. A persistent heavy rain was falling from low, deep grey cloud cover but the thunder and lightning had moved north, heading for the coast.

Not needing the sounds of the elements and nature to mask his movements, Auum walked forward, footsteps less than whispers on the forest floor, barely a leaf rippling as he passed. Five yards to either side, his Tai mirrored him. He had no need to look to know exactly where they stood. They were Duele and Evunn and, with Auum, formed one cell of the TaiGethen, the elite warrior hunters of the Al-Arynaar. There were fifty cells in all, spread through the rainforest. No single elf knew them all but every elf knew their purpose.

When called, they killed strangers.

And for Auum’s Tai, their quarry was close. They had no orders but the word had reached them and they, like every cell, would comb their zone of the forest, exterminating any threat they found.

For Auum it was his first call, but he didn’t think in terms of nerves, or reality versus training. This was what the TaiGethen were bred for.

The scents of the enemy camp had been in their nostrils for hours now as they had closed in. Like poison on the wind, woodsmoke, waxed canvas and cooked meat drifted where they had no right to. It was an affront to the Gods of the rainforest. To Cefu, God of the canopy; to Beeth, the lord of root and branch; and to Tual, who ruled the forest denizens.

The TaiGethen were willing slaves to the Gods and would do their bidding. The forest had to be cleansed and the balance restored.

The cell came together scant yards from the strangers’ encampment to paint themselves and pray. The destruction of the forest to make the camp clearing offended and Auum could see the contempt in the eyes of his Tai. Not anger. Anger was a distraction and a waste.

Opening his pouches of black and deep green pastes, he traced broken stripes over Duele’s deep brown face, his prayers sharpening their focus still further. And when the three were ready they rose to their feet, tan moccasins making no sound, green mottled jerkins and trousers blending with the tones of the undergrowth, faces now marked and hidden.

‘Work for the Tai. Faith will keep us. Now string your bows and we will do the Gods’ bidding.’

There was a commotion outside the tent, but during his fever Sorys had heard so much that was strange he’d stopped trusting his senses. He’d been hallucinating giant spiders and plagues of snakes at the height of his four-day fever but at least now his mind was capable, or seemed to be, of rational thought. His tending mage, Claryse, said the fever had broken but that he was to rest another two days before joining Yron at the temple. She’d said very little but Sorys had the distinct impression they’d encountered serious trouble there.

So he lay in a platoon tent on a makeshift hammock, alone but for an oil lamp on the ground nearby. His night terrors were still too real and the pale yellow light was such a comfort.

He listened hard. There was something not right about what he could hear outside but he couldn’t be sure if the fever had truly left him and he felt confused. So he just lay where he was, straining to pick up the sounds in among the raised voices.

The commotion died down. He thought he heard footsteps outside his tent but they were very quiet. And then, clear as the call of one of those damned howling monkeys, came a shrill wailing, passing left to right. It was the sound of loss, and it shuddered through his tired body. It scared him but he didn’t cry out. Best to lie very still.

The wail came again and again. A man shouted but was cut off abruptly. Sorys could feel his heart beating very hard in his chest. Nausea rose. He reached for his water bottle just as the tent flap flew open. Claryse stood there, the lantern light illuminating a face drawn by some awful fear.

‘Ghosts,’ she stammered, voice choked and broken. ‘Ghosts. We’ve got—’

The head of an arrow appeared through the front of her throat and her body jolted forwards. She stumbled, blood pouring from the wound. She reached out, tried to speak and crumpled.

Sorys was too terrified even to scream.

He heard a whispering on the breeze and the tent flap moved again.

With the tent canvas shredded, all ropes frayed and cut, bodies laid out, fires extinguished and all metal buried, Auum led the Tai in prayer. They’d killed seventeen strangers and he felt at peace though the scything of the forest around him was a stain that only the gods could remove.

‘Cefu, hear us. Beeth, hear us. Tual, hear us. We, your loyal servants who work according to your will, offer all that is around us to you and your denizens. May the flesh feed your creatures, may the cloth line burrows and nests and may the bones forever remind all who seek to destroy you that there is only eternal failure and damnation. Hear us and move us. Direct us to your will and so it shall be.

‘To the greater glory of Yniss, who presides above all who walk this land. Hear us.’

‘And so it shall be,’ intoned Duele and Evunn.

Each of the Tai bowed his head in silent contemplation for a moment.

Auum stood.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘We have more work to do.’

Yron and Ben-Foran were crouched by a small clutch of plants at the base of a balsa tree. Wide triangular green leaves sprawled out, seeming almost part of the tree but attached to a thick woody stem.

‘Now,’ said Yron. ‘This is a young pareira vine. Notice the leaf shape. When it gets older, it’ll flower and produce a red oblong fruit. Got that?’

Ben-Foran nodded.

‘It’s an important plant because a poultice of these leaves makes a good snake bite antidote and you can take a root infusion for the same purpose.’

‘Does it work?’

Yron gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘How do you suppose the forest elves survive day to day? So many of these plants have medicinal qualities. Learn. Because when you’re without mage support, you might need to know. Now. One more thing. See that?’

He pointed at a flash of yellow under the leaves. It was a frog, barely bigger than his thumb.

‘Yes, Captain.’

Ben-Foran reached out reflexively but Yron slapped his hand away.

‘Don’t touch it. Don’t let it touch you on exposed skin. This is the yellow frog. Remember my talk on the ship?’

Yes, but—’ began Ben.

‘Small, isn’t it?’ said Yron. ‘But there’s enough poison on its back to kill us all ten times over. You recall all of those who died from light puncture wounds? The elven arrows were all tipped with this poison.’ Yron grimaced. ‘Now, I know it’s getting dark but I want as many of the men as possible to see this frog. It’ll give them some sense of perspective.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The two men stood.

‘Captain Yron.’ It was Erys, running from the temple. He was clutching some papers and beaming all over his freckled face. Yron felt a warm glow, comforting despite the stifling heat.

‘Good news, I take it?’ He signalled Ben-Foran to stay with him.

‘The best,’ said Erys as he stopped in front of them, handing over two leather-bound books and a scroll of parchment.

‘Thanks,’ said Yron. ‘I’ll acquire their accumulated wisdom the moment I’ve grasped ancient elvish. A decade of your close tutelage should do the trick.’

Erys stared at him a moment before he got the joke. ‘Sorry, I just . . . Well, never mind. The point is, I could understand enough of that to know it’s what we’re looking for. It’s the key to the longevity argument.’

Yron raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? And how many doors are there left to open?’

‘Seven, I think. The Gods know when they’ll open.’

‘Hmm.’ Yron clacked his tongue while he thought. ‘Never mind the frog, Ben; we’ll find another tomorrow. Bring me the fittest sixteen men we have, barring yourself.’

‘Yes, Captain. Might I ask why?’

‘You might, but it would be a waste of your breath.’

Ben-Foran saluted and strode off, calling out names as he went. ‘It’s time we got some of this stuff away from here,’ he said to Erys.

‘You think we’re in some danger?’

‘This is the centre of their faith, or so you told me. How long before it gets visited by more Al-Arynaar, do you think?’ Yron hefted the papers. ‘These go tonight, and not via the camp. There’s something not quite right about the atmosphere round here.’

‘I can’t feel anything different.’

‘No indeed. But then you haven’t been here before, have you? It’s just a feeling. Trust me.’ He ushered Erys back towards the temple. ‘Show me everything you’ve got so far. We need an evacuation plan.’

Thunder cracked across the darkening sky. The rains came again.

The next morning, Hirad was woken by The Unknown Warrior to a surprisingly cool dawn. A sea mist had rolled in and was suffocating the docks and large areas of the city, hemmed in as it was by hills. Over a meal of bread and herb tea, Ren assured them the mist wouldn’t last.

Hirad didn’t care if it stayed all day. He was anxious to get on and could feel the energy building within him. He knew where it came from and he looked around the table and drank in the sight. The Raven. Together and united in a single purpose. To watch them and hear the desultory conversation it was easy to imagine they were as they had always been but that was far from the truth.

Thraun still hadn’t uttered a word and had the look of a man lost to the real world for much of the time. At the moment he was concentrating on food and was the most human he ever seemed. He followed The Unknown around like a faithful hound. Hirad was beginning to wonder if he’d prove a liability.

The dark patches under Erienne’s eyes told of another night of precious little sleep. Hirad had heard her quiet crying through the thin walls of the inn and Denser’s voice trying to comfort her. Neither had said much this morning but they had brought no good news back with them the previous evening. Though they’d not seen or heard of anyone dying, more and more were afflicted and to starkly varying degrees.

Some who had shown violent symptoms days before were now no more than tired, while others who had only just developed the disease were already too weak or unbalanced to walk, or else were struggling against sudden and severe internal bleeding. The Raven had done what they could, but without experience of the ways of elves had found themselves treated with coolness though not hostility.

Still, at least Darrick was with them now. Hirad remembered trying to get him to ride with The Raven during the final stages of their quest for Dawnthief. He’d refused then but Hirad had always known deep down that things would change. It was just a shame the circumstances of that change had been so bloody and tragic.

He looked forward to fighting with Darrick, if it came to that, back on Balaia. Aeb, of course, was a hugely powerful addition and The Unknown’s left-hand defence now he couldn’t use his double-handed sword. Ren worried him though. There had been neither the will nor the need to train her to fight in line and he worried about what that might do. He knew she enjoyed swordplay but perhaps they could persuade her to stick to her bow.

Time would undoubtedly tell. But on the trip to Balaia they’d have to get themselves back into fighting form. The Raven had survived for so many years because of their trust and unshakeable discipline as much as their skill. Hirad reminded himself to talk to The Unknown about it. He wasn’t sure how much fighting the big man anticipated back on Balaia but one thing was certain. Right now, they didn’t have their edge. They’d be fighting from memory, with two people who had only fought with them once, one who hadn’t hefted a sword in The Raven ever and one complete enigma.

Hirad drained his tea and stood up from the table in the inn where they’d gathered for breakfast. All that was for later.

‘Come on then, Raven. Let’s get moving before the sun clears this mist.’

There was a concerted move stalled only by Thraun, who was determined to finish every last crumb of bread.

‘What’s he planning to do, hibernate?’ said Ilkar. ‘Don’t bring too much. We’re in one boat. It’s got oars, a sail and forward decking for stowing gear. I’ll introduce you to the guide when we’re on our way. Until then, keep quiet. He’s already nervous about taking strangers upriver.’

‘Strangers?’

‘Yes, Hirad. If you’re not elven on Calaius, you’re a stranger. Remember that. Especially inland.’

They walked down to the river jetties in almost total silence, the thick mist giving the streets an eerie feel. Ysundeneth was very quiet. It shouldn’t have been, not even this early, but word of the illness would have spread fast and people weren’t anxious to open their doors and face the uncertainty of the day ahead.

The sun was barely beginning to penetrate the chill of the mist. Hirad shivered, wishing for his heavy leather or furs, but on Ilkar’s advice he, like all of them, had bought new clothes in the markets yesterday. Light leather armour and boots, lightweight cloaks and shirts. Everything dark brown, black or green, the colours of the forest.

‘It must be a drab place,’ Hirad had said.

Ilkar had laughed. ‘You have never seen anything like it.’

Hirad determined to remember that. He’d better be impressed.

Ilkar took them through twisting paved streets with houses and buildings close in on either side. Above the mist, seabirds called and answered. The jetties were a couple of miles inland from the docks and above the estuary. They were built for shallow-draught river-boats, and as they approached Hirad could see dozens of the boats tied up or hauled onto the muddy shore of the River Ix, which was named after the elven God of mana, or so Ilkar said.

He could smell the water. It was not altogether unpleasant, and although brown and its flow soporific in its sluggishness, it had none of the fetid stagnancy he associated with city rivers back on Balaia. The elves, it seemed, didn’t use theirs as dumps or sewers.

The wooden jetty echoed under the tramp of their feet, the odd timber creaking as they passed, water lapping against the piles driven into the river bed. Ilkar strode confidently over the damp and slippery surface, stopping in front of a quartet of identical craft each some thirty feet long with a single mast in the middle, sail furled horizontally against it. An elf was stretched out across a seat at the stern of one of the vessels, smoke curling from a pipe in his mouth. It reminded Hirad that he hadn’t seen Denser smoking his pipe in ages. Perhaps Erienne had cured him of the habit.

Ilkar hailed the elf and he sat up and waved them all on board, keeping his eyes down, not wishing contact with the Balaians invading his boat. He was old for an elf, his hair long and greying, his face full of sharp lines and heavy wrinkles. He had huge hands and powerful shoulders and possessed little of the natural grace of so many of his kind. He and Ilkar held a brief conversation in a dialect Hirad couldn’t understand before he untied the stern rope and pushed them into the flow with an oar, where there was a breeze getting up, clearing the mist.

‘Get the sail up, would you someone?’ asked Ilkar, taking up station at the tiller with their guide, Ren, close to him. ‘Kayloor thinks there’ll be enough wind to take us up against the current but if we could have oars ready, it might help if things get slack.’

‘No problem,’ said The Unknown, bending down and untying the oar beneath the bulwark. ‘You relax.’

‘Someone’s got to relay what he’s saying,’ said Ilkar, a smile on his face.

‘Right.’ The Unknown sat down, Aeb taking up the position beside him. Thraun looked on in some confusion but The Unknown just waved him to a seat and he seemed to understand. Denser and Erienne sat in the prow looking out, still saying nothing. It left Hirad and Darrick to raise the sail, which filled enough to push them gently out into the current.

‘Now it starts,’ said Ilkar. ‘Keep your eyes on the banks and don’t trail your hands in the water.’

‘Fish got sharp teeth, have they?’ said Hirad.

‘Oh it’s not the fish that should be worrying you, Hirad. There’s far worse than mere fish in here,’ said Ilkar.

‘You’re so reassuring.’

‘Just realistic,’ said Ilkar. ‘This isn’t like anything any of you have ever experienced. Don’t treat it like Balaia or even Herendeneth or you’ll come unstuck.’

‘ “Coming unstuck” meaning?’

‘Dead, usually,’ said Ren.

‘Great place,’ said Hirad. ‘How surprising you left.’

‘But it is great, Hirad,’ said Ilkar. ‘Just dangerous for strangers.’

Hirad shared a glance with Darrick, who raised his eyebrows.

‘All right, General?’ asked the barbarian.

‘Never better,’ replied Darrick.

A booming bellow echoed across the river from the opposite bank. Through the clearing mist, a flock of birds scattered into the sky, their calls piercing and shrill. Hirad jumped. The boat rocked. In the stern Ren and Ilkar were laughing.

‘Gods, but I’m going to enjoy this,’ said the mage.

The sail snapped and filled as the breeze stiffened in the centre of the channel. Choosing to keep his thoughts to himself, Hirad looked away into the depths of the rainforest.

Chapter 14

Selik, forty Black Wings and their mage prisoner galloped into Understone after a hard three-day ride through yet more devastated countryside, abandoned farms and desolate villages. Their horses were exhausted, riders saddle-sore and Selik himself was experiencing severe pain in his face and across the dead parts of his chest. It was something he’d never understood. The nerves had been frozen by the bitch’s spell so why could it hurt so much? Phantom pain, he’d been told. He preferred to believe it signalled some regeneration of his damaged body but in six years his condition hadn’t improved.

Understone had never recovered from its central role in the last Wesmen wars. A small garrison town, it had been run-down when the war began and the battles it saw had left it burned and battered. It was now barely a shell. And to think what it had been when first built: the great defence against Wesmen invasion through Understone Pass.

The Black Wings rode down its rebuilt but again abandoned main street, past boarded-up houses down to the small stockaded garrison itself, reining in by the open front gates. Less than four hundred yards away, the black mouth that was the pass yawned large. Under the control of the Wesmen once again, the pass was the only passable land route east to west across the Blackthorne Mountains.

Selik turned his attention to the guard who hurried out to meet them. He was a raw recruit wearing old shabby leather and chain armour and carrying a rusting pike. His helmet wobbled on his head and his white, pinched and hungry face held frightened eyes.

‘State your business,’ he said, his voice wavering.

Selik dismounted and walked over to the guard, his arms spread to indicate peaceful intent.

‘Please don’t be nervous. We mean our defenders no harm,’ he drawled through the ache in his face and mouth. ‘We merely seek a place to billet for the night before riding on south tomorrow morning.’

The guard’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘Why south?’

‘We’re on a humanitarian mission,’ said Selik. ‘Perhaps I should speak to your commanding officer.’

‘I will see if he’s available,’ said the guard, the tremor diminishing in his voice. ‘May I take your name?’

‘Of course. I am Captain Selik and these are the Black Wings.’

The guard took a step backwards. ‘I’ll go and get the Commander. ’

Selik shook his head and turned to his men.

‘Dismount. Go and find yourselves places to sleep. I’ll organise feed for the horses and make sure the garrison have nothing to fear from us, if you know what I mean. We’ll talk later. Be ready for my orders.’

He watched them disperse, one of his lieutenants taking his horse for him. His gaze fell on the Julatsan mage, his puffed face and bound hands, as he was pulled from his mount. The elf leant against his horse while the strength returned to his legs. Selik was forming a grudging respect for him. Despite threats, frequent beatings, smashed fingers and toes, the mage hadn’t even told them his name.

Selik would normally have broken a mage by now, frightened him or her into doing his bidding. But this elf had enormous mental strength. It couldn’t go on, of course. Selik had a message he wanted delivered. He didn’t want to wait until he returned from Blackthorne to despatch it and, right now, one thing he was certain of was that this mage would not obey him. Turning to watch the garrison commander walk towards him, the scared guard at his shoulder, he pondered what he might do.

‘Captain Selik,’ said the Commander gruffly, not offering a hand. He was a lean man, more from hunger than fitness, Selik suspected, with very short grey hair and a well trimmed beard of the same colour. His armour was obviously looked after if a little old and he carried himself with pride. ‘I am Anders, commander of this garrison. My private tells me you’re looking to travel south.’

‘Tomorrow morning, Commander Anders. I was hoping you’d allow my men to rest until then in the town.’

Anders raised his eyebrows. ‘Help yourself. I can offer you nothing in the way of food or bedding though we have a well in the compound here that you’re welcome to use.’

Selik smiled. ‘Many thanks. I appreciate the gesture.’

Anders’ face was stone. ‘It was not offered in fellowship. I care more for your horses than I do for you or your band of murderers.’

Used to the polarised reactions he inspired, Selik kept himself deliberately calm.

‘We are all entitled to our beliefs, Commander. Much of Balaia’s population would not agree with you, I fear.’

‘I have heard the reports, Selik. You are attempting to deny Balaia the very people it needs to drag itself out of this mess.’

‘A mess created by magic,’ snapped Selik.

‘I won’t debate this with you,’ said Anders, holding up a hand. ‘You are wrong and unwelcome, and were it not for your horses, you would not be staying here.’

‘Exactly what I would expect from a college lackey.’

Anders laughed. ‘Don’t try to rile me, Selik. I am proud of my college. And I am proud of the force I command here, small though it is. There may be conflict between the colleges at the moment but not here. We are, and ever will be, mindful of the Wesmen threat and we also police the trails north and south of here.’

‘Conflict? What are they telling you, Anders? Let me guess. The Xeteskian and Dordovan contingents had to be recalled but they have failed to explain why, am I right? I’d hate you to have to test their commitment right now.’

Anders stepped forward and ushered Selik away from the gates to the compound.

‘Let me advise you of a couple of things, Selik. First, the four colleges all hold to the pledge to supply a considerable force should there be any attempted incursion. I and my fifty charges are here to maintain defences, wards and to keep up trails, food and water supplies.

‘Second, I have mages inside that compound who I rate as friends. They will be very unhappy you are here even for a night but very happy that you are travelling south in the morning. I have no idea why you’re going and I don’t care as long as you leave at first light,’ he said, coming to a halt. ‘But if Blackthorne is your intended destination, I have no doubt he will be even less accommodating. He, like me, believes in both mages and magic.’

‘I’ll bear your warning in mind,’ said Selik.

‘I sincerely hope not,’ said Anders. ‘Now, I don’t expect to see you at my gates ever again. Only two of your men will collect water at a time, and they will ask permission at the gates before entering. And should any of my men or mages be abused verbally or physically by any of your men, I will seek you out and kill you myself. How do those rules sound to you?’

‘Whatever makes you happy, Commander. Good day. We will not speak again.’

Selik walked on, not sparing Anders another glance. He picked up his pace as he strode down into the town, noting the temporary picketing of horses and the boards levered off wrecked buildings to fuel fires. He snapped his fingers at a nearby Black Wing whose name escaped him. No more than a thug, the man, with thick neck and bald head covered in tattoos, ambled across, a stalk of grass hanging from his mouth.

‘Where is Devun?’

The man shrugged and pointed. ‘In the old inn, I think.’

‘See that Edman and Callom join us there immediately. And then start ferrying water, two men at a time, from the compound. And keep your mouth shut. They may be college scum but we need them until we get back, understand?’

The man looked at him with sullen eyes but nodded. ‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Then get on with it.’

Selik marched to the inn, identifiable only because of the brace on which the sign had once hung. Inside, he found Devun and Edman talking with another two. They were among a litter of splintered timbers but had found a serviceable table and bench.

‘You two, get out of here. See to your horses and wait for orders,’ said Selik, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. ‘And if you see Callom, get him in here quickly.’

He watched them until they disappeared through the door out to the street.

‘Right. Where’s the mage?’

‘Callom’s got him. We’re still working on him,’ said Devun. ‘Gods, but he’s a tough bastard.’

‘Keep going. I want him cracked by the morning or his corpse in the ground.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ said Edman, a Black Wing veteran; tall, well built with dark brown hair and a bushy beard flecked with grey.

‘Right, I’ve learned two things. First, the garrison here is small but has reasonable mage strength. However, it is isolated. Second, Blackthorne is definitely harbouring mages.

‘Things need to move fast now. It’s eight days’ ride to Blackthorne and I’ll be leaving before dawn tomorrow. Give it half a day to talk to the Baron and scout the area and another eight days back and you have your timescale.’

‘Is it worth visiting Blackthorne, sir? After all, he won’t join us,’ said Edman.

‘I have to know the threat he poses to us, and I have to canvass opinion of our crusade in the outlying villages. Yes, it’s worth it. And I have to try to convert him before declaring him an enemy. Think if I could persuade him against his beliefs.’

‘And the rest of the plan still holds?’ asked Edman.

‘Yes. You and Callom each pick five good men. Mobilise support. Bring supply. Bring it here. I want the first true Balaians here by the time the garrison is cleared. I can give you a maximum of twenty days. Think you can do that?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Edman nodded. ‘And what about the garrison?’

‘Leave it to me. Don’t worry. By the time you get back, we’ll be in charge of Understone. Now pick your men, brief Callom when you see him, since he’s obviously otherwise engaged now, and get some rest. You’re leaving before me.’

Edman nodded and trotted out of the inn. Selik turned to Devun and breathed out long.

‘Any alcohol in here?’

‘No, sir.’ Devun smiled. ‘We’ve looked.’

‘Cellars?’

‘Empty.’

‘Dammit.’ Selik sat down heavily on the bench, which creaked alarmingly.

‘Are you worried, Captain?’

Selik looked up into Devun’s eyes and shook his head. ‘Not really. But this is our best chance to bring down the colleges and I can’t afford it to go wrong. We’ve got to crack that mage, make sure he takes our message. Their divisions need deepening.’

‘I’ll see what I can do, Captain.’ Devun cracked his knuckles for effect.

‘You’re a good man, Devun,’ said Selik. ‘I’m glad you’re with me. The sacrifices are many on the path to righteousness. Get to it.’

Devun beamed, saluted and left.

Selik smiled at his retreating back.

Heryst, Lord Elder Mage of Lystern, slapped his riding gloves down on the table in the great hall of the college’s vast tower complex and poured himself a large goblet of wine. He stared around at the tapestries of his forerunners while he calmed himself and waited for the council.