Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 112 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Galloping through the quiet streets of Lystern in the early hours of the morning on the last day of his ride from Dordover, Heryst had felt the anger redouble in him. This city was dragging itself back from the brink of famine. Its people had worked hard and believed in the rationing that had kept them alive. They had taken in refugees by the thousand, gone without to do so, and still there had been little disorder.

The streets were clean, the markets still bought and sold, trade was just beginning to show some recovery and he had seen real optimism in the faces of those he had passed.

And now it was being threatened. Pointlessly threatened.

Draining his goblet, he poured more, enjoying the taste of the wine so early in the day, feeling it warming his mind and easing his frayed temper. He walked to one of the great arched windows and looked down over his college.

The great hall sat at the top of the wide low tower that was the centre of Lysternan magic. Only forty feet high, with a plain tiled conical roof, it had a diameter three times its height and an intricate beam system bound by magic that kept the roof from collapsing. Beneath the great hall, ceremonial chambers, lecture theatres and laboratories were dug deep into the earth surrounding the Heart of the college.

Like the spokes of a wheel, seven stone corridors spread from the tower to an outer circle of offices and classrooms, and between the corridors were seven stunning gardens, places of contemplation reserved for the senior mages of the college. Orchards, shrubberies, rock gardens, pools and fantastic arrays of flowers; the mood of the mage and the season dictated where one might be found walking or sitting.

Linked to the outer circle, arcs of buildings spread hundreds of yards in all directions: the library, refectories, cold room, mana bowl, long rooms and chambers of those resident. Only Heryst himself had his rooms and offices in the tower. All built to a focused design, Lysternan magic found power in the geometry of its buildings, their precise architecture and the angles of walls and roofs. Heryst didn’t claim to know a great deal about the origins of the knowledge, he only knew he was not going to let it be torn apart.

He sat in his luxuriously upholstered and very high-backed chair, all deep greens and blood reds, and looked around the circular table, with its diamond-patterned marquetry and its hollows where the elbows of ages had worn its scratched but polished surface. What decisions had been taken here over the centuries, what great projects had been discussed. History hung in the air; you could all but smell it. But no subject could have been more important than the one about to be aired now.

Doors opened all along the semicircular corridor that bordered the great hall on one side and in came the council. Thirty men and women, expectant but a little anxious at being called from their beds so early. Each took his or her allotted place at the table. Not a one spoke aloud though Heryst could feel the odd surge of Communion as some tried to get a hint of what was to come from friends they thought in higher places than themselves.

‘My friends, I apologise for the intrusion on your rest this morning and for my appearance,’ said Heryst, when all were seated. He had no doubt the fact he was still dusty and sweaty from the road had raised a few eyebrows. ‘But there are things I need to know and you need to hear.’

There was a murmur around the table. Heryst looked to his immediate left, straight into the eyes of his mentor, Kayvel. He touched the arm of the white-haired strong old man, smiled and nodded.

‘It has come,’ he said quietly.

Kayvel sighed, his grey eyes sparkling in the sun and lantern light. ‘And in my lifetime.’

‘And I thank the Gods you are here to advise me.’

‘Speak,’ Kayvel said.

Heryst turned to the council table and spoke.

‘My friends, you will know I am just returned from Dordover. I had thought to seek assurances from Vuldaroq that the conflict at Arlen was at an end before riding to Xetesk to seek the same from Dystran.

‘Instead, I find that we are facing our gravest crisis for hundreds of years. We have suffered animosities and skirmishes in my lifetime but all these disputes were settled by negotiation. What we are facing now, my friends, is war. War between powerful colleges at a time when the very existence of magic is being questioned on Balaia. At a time when surely we should be pulling together to repair the damage magic has done to our land, two colleges seek to rip us all to shreds. All over a dead girl and the information two dying elves can give.

‘Should we have been surprised? Possibly not. After all, we have seen Xetesk and Dordover battle over Lyanna; we have seen Dordover betray Erienne, one of their own, to the witch hunters; and we have seen our own General Darrick so sickened by our liaison with Dordover that he deserted his command. And the results of what Xetesk’s Protector army did to Arlen are there today for all to see.’

‘But is it war?’ A voice sounded from the far side of the table. ‘Could this not be another flexing of muscles?’

‘I rode here and probably killed my horse in the process because it is war. Both colleges want it and we will be swept up in it, whether we like it or not. I fear for us and I fear for Julatsa because I do not believe this fight will end when either Xetesk or Dordover is beaten. The balance of magic will be irrevocably altered and the victor will inevitably desire dominion.

‘Vuldaroq informs me that Xetesk has cleared its refugee camps by riding the people out like animals. They have scattered, many towards the Dord to the north. Some will inevitably come here.

‘Kayvel, I need you to contact our deputation in Xetesk. Make sure they are unharmed and free. Are there any questions?’

He looked around the table. No one spoke.

‘Good. I am going to rest and change. You are going to stay here and begin planning. And remember, if war comes to our borders and our negotiations come to nothing, we may have to defend not just ourselves but Julatsa too.’

The doors at the end of the chamber opened with a crash.

‘My Lord Heryst, council. I apologise but I must speak.’

Heryst stilled the irritated murmur with a hand and acknowledged the head of his mana spectrum monitoring team.

‘Go ahead, Dunera.’

‘My Lord.’ She nodded. ‘We’ve got a problem in the spectrum over Arlen.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But whatever it is, people are going to die. Lots of them.’

‘And the signature?’ asked Kayvel.

‘The mana is in flux, density increasing. It’s huge, or it will be. And it’s offensive in nature, no doubt of it.’

‘Who’s casting it?’

‘Xetesk.’

‘Do we have anyone in the vicinity?’ Heryst kneaded his forehead.

‘Yes. We have representatives with the Dordovans,’ said Dunera, head dropping to her chest. ‘They have refused to leave and I have already commended their souls.’

Commander Senese ran along the back of the Dordovan lines, urging his men to greater efforts. Three days they’d repulsed comfortably the Xeteskians’ attempts to push them out of the northern streets. But now this.

Dawn had seen fierce fighting on three fronts, with Protectors in every attack. His men were holding but only just, keeping key intersections secure as well as the southern edge of the Park of the Martyrs. But in the mana spectrum, something much, much worse.

They’d been following its development for hours; a cooperative spell that must be taking the combined stamina of over fifty mages. And planning defence and reaction was taking most of his magical resource, leaving this as a battle almost entirely without spell attack. Somehow, though, he had to break the enemy onslaught.

‘Don’t falter!’ he called. ‘Push on. You can break them.’

The power of the Protectors was awesome. Huge men, masked and silent, their dual sword and axe attacks directed by the soul mind so quickly and accurately. But Dordover had to stand up to them. To be exact, the scared men in front of him had to.

One of those men took an axe in his chest. He was cast into those behind, threatening for a moment to cause a breach in the line, but Senese filled it, sword deflecting a low strike.

‘Keep going!’

Their commander’s presence fighting alongside galvanised those near him. The din of order and weapon increased, and the Xeteskians’ grinding advance was halted. Senese wheeled his blade and drove it at a Protector’s heart. Without looking, the masked man whipped his axe across to block, following up with a sweep of his sword. Senese ducked, yelling a warning. The blade whistled just over him, slicing through stray hairs on his head and burying itself in the skull of the man next to him at the end of its arc.

Blood and brain sprayed into the air. The victim tumbled sideways to the ground. The Protectors stepped up their pace. Senese moved to block and thrust again and felt a presence at his right shoulder.

‘Sir!’ It was one of his field captains, a brave young man named Hinar. ‘Drop back. You’re needed at command!’

Senese flat-bladed a Protector across the mask, sending him staggering. Hinar saw his opportunity and thrust forward, his point piercing the enemy’s armour and penetrating his stomach.

‘Go, we can hold!’ Hinar re-gathered himself to turn away an axe, the heavy blow making him gasp.

Senese forced a regular Xeteskian soldier back and ducked out of the combat, another man immediately moving to take his place. He ran back towards the ruined bakery in which he’d set up his command post. The lead mage met him halfway.

‘We’ve got to pull back,’ said Indesi, his face terrified, his hands grabbing at Senese’s jerkin. ‘We can’t defend against this spell.’

‘Find a way,’ barked Senese. ‘We are not running.’

‘It’s too big, it’ll destroy us.’

‘Then combine your shields and talk up your mages.’ Senese stopped and spun Indesi round to look at the fighting. ‘See those men? Up against it but they believe. Start believing yourself.’

‘But—’

‘And where will we run to, eh? Those bastards will chase us all the way to Dordover. We can’t let them run the supply route from here to Xetesk. I will not yield.’

‘Then break through right now or they will win anyway.’ Indesi’s voice was toneless, dead almost. ‘You don’t understand.’

‘I understand we cannot afford to lose this town. That’s what I understand.’

A piercing scream from inside the command post went straight through Senese.

‘What the—’

But Indesi wasn’t listening. He turned and ran to the door, shouted into its lantern-lit interior.

‘Weave the defence grid. No gaps, dual skin.’ He looked back over his shoulder at Senese before disappearing inside. ‘It’s coming. I warned you.’

Senese shuddered and began to run back towards the line. Perhaps there was still a chance. There were still men running across the small courtyard to the line he was defending. The enemy mages had to be right behind the Protectors. Surely the spell would be targeted by line of sight.

He opened his mouth to shout but swallowed it. A blue glow, brighter than the sun, washed over the buildings ahead, casting stark shadows down alleys, behind trees and across the courtyard. The fighting changed in tone. Voices lost their authority, blades fell with less power.

‘No!’ he shouted. ‘Fight. Now you’ve got to fight!’

He began to run forward again but his men were wavering. The Protectors would slaughter them. But they weren’t moving, satisfied to stand by and watch. And the reason became all too clear.

Above the level of tree and building rose a globe of fire, tinged deep Xeteskian blue and ringed by sparks and sheets of what looked like lightning but Senese knew was unstable mana.

‘Oh dear Gods,’ said Senese, staring up as the globe rose smoothly, its radiance glaring harsh, its size, bigger than a ship, awesome and stupefying. His men were starting to break. ‘Stay under the shielding. It’s your only chance!’

But while the Xeteskians stood and watched, the Dordovans scattered beneath the globe and the stillness that accompanied it.

‘Stand firm!’ screamed Senese, but they weren’t listening to him.

Weapons fell from nerveless hands, brave men stumbled and sprawled, legs pumping as they tried to flee, not heeding the most obvious fact. There was nowhere to run. Hinar came to his side.

‘Where are the mages?’ he shouted into the pounding of feet and cries of fear.

‘Trying to shield us. Pray Gods they can make it stick.’

Hinar nodded as the two men backed away, watching the globe gathering speed and, impossibly, size as it rushed over the heads of the Xeteskians.

‘Come on, Indesi,’ breathed Senese. ‘Come on.’

The globe struck the Dordovan outer shield. Mana flared and spat, the globe flattened over the curved surface, bulged down over them. Senese felt a sudden intense heat as the shield gave way.

He put his hands above him and crouched reflexively but the globe didn’t travel far, striking the second skin, but hard. The temperature was like the inside of an oven, the blazing heat of the Southern Continent desert and increasing. From the command post, Senese could hear screaming and voices urging effort.

‘They aren’t going to do it,’ said Senese, breaking at last. ‘Run.’ The two men turned, but at the same moment the second shield collapsed, the great globe crashing down into the courtyard. Senese was blown from his feet by the rush of displaced air and connected hard with the wall of a building. It jarred his back and he crumpled into a half seated position, winded and groggy. He focussed his eyes as the globe struck the ground.

Fire washed across the cobblestones, surging up the sides of buildings and blasting through windows and weakened timbers. Across the courtyard, a damaged tenement shattered under the blast, the rending of wood and squealing of nails torn from stays lost in the roar of flame. Everywhere, men, helpless under the spell, were rolled over or plucked from the ground, clothing and flesh charred in a heartbeat.

The heat in the courtyard intensified still further. Sword metal glowed red, stones blackened, timber disintegrated, glass dissolved. Roof tiles flew high into the sky as the globe breached another building, tearing it apart. A great pall of smoke billowed in the superheated wind, which took the screams of the dying and whipped them away like chaff in a breeze. A burning corpse struck the wall by Senese and broke apart, gaping skull pleading.

Indesi had been right; this was no ordinary FlameOrb construct. There was too much heat, too much energy. It consumed everything in its path, scoured the ground clean as would the fires of hell.

And as the heat lashed the moisture from his body Senese’s last view was of the Xeteskians, standing and waiting, their fire breaking over their mana shields which glowed blue and dissipated its power.

‘What have you done?’ he rasped.

The flame wall rolled over him like an angry sea.

Chapter 15

It was night. Yron was standing alone in the centre of the stone apron outside the ring of guard fires. Behind him, his men either stood nervous guard or tried to rest as best they could in the increasing humidity and heat that had penetrated the temple in the last few days. Presumably, the atmosphere had been spoiled by the removal of the doors but Yron thought there was probably more to it than that. It was like the ambience in the rainforest; he couldn’t put his finger on it but he knew all was not well.

He had come beyond the guard fires to listen and to think. Out in the forest the sounds of the night echoed around him; the growl of big cats, the calls of monkeys and birds under threat, the buzzing of an insect swarm under the canopy, awoken from rest. A spider scuttled across the apron right by his feet. The size of his hand, he watched it go, pursuing some prey he couldn’t see, perhaps one of the myriad frogs croaking all around him, or the cicadas rasping as they tried to attract mates.

Yron felt uncertain and that was a condition with which he was unfamiliar. The runner he’d sent to the base camp earlier today hadn’t returned and that worried him. He knew he should have sent two men but Pavol was very fit and wanted to see whether he could run all the way. Yron was a man to encourage endeavour and had loaded him with water skins and sent him at dawn.

Now he needed him back with news. There was danger coming and he was anxious about the sick in the camp. He needed to start moving back to the coast where his ships lay at anchor, and he was not about to leave anyone behind.

Erys finding the vital writings earlier that evening was good news in the extreme and Yron’s first squad was ready to go before first light the next day. He had outlined for them a different route based on his incomplete charts of the forest. It would take them up to six days to reach the ships, assuming they stayed healthy. They were a quartet in which Ben-Foran had faith and that was enough for him, yet he still felt nervous for them. The rainforest was a danger to all of them but more so now. Their invasion could not go unnoticed for long and inevitably the elves would seek revenge.

The elven guard at the temple had surprised him with their ferocity but there was much worse out there and it was those elves he feared and those elves that he was sure were coming. He knew his men didn’t understand why he was splitting his force. They had been taught there was strength in numbers, but in the depths of the rainforest it didn’t always hold true. Small squads of men, quiet and careful men, would have more chance of survival out there.

Yron blew out his cheeks and swatted at a fly that buzzed around his head. How long before the enemy got here? Should he call up the reserve from the ships to cover his retreat? How long could he give Erys and Stenys to research? Should he cut his losses now? After all they had the main prize, if Erys was right, and all but those papers were leaving for the ships tomorrow. Erys would take the most valuable material himself.

Looking up into the heavens, Yron could see it was clouding over again. Thunder rumbled distantly. Another downpour was on its way. He turned to go back to the watch fires but a crashing in the forest stopped him. He spun round, cocking an ear. Whatever it was was blundering wildly. Probably a wounded animal. Whatever it was was coming straight towards them. He backed up and drew his axe, listening to the snap of branches and the calls of distress that set off the howler monkeys and the wild shrieks of birds in their nests.

He reached the ring of fires.

‘Crossbowmen ready. If it’s injured, we need to take it down. It’ll attack anything that gets in its way and that includes us.’

A heartbeat later and those cries of distress resolved themselves into something that set his heart racing.

‘Stand down!’ he ordered.

He was already hurrying towards the path when the figure stumbled out of the forest, ran a few unsteady steps across the paving, slipped and sprawled on its damp surface.

‘Erys!’ Yron shouted, running to the fallen figure. ‘Get out here now. Bring me some light. Move!’

He slithered to a halt by the man, who was heaving in great ragged breaths, coughing and shivering the length of his body. He knelt and put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘Calm down, Pavol. You’re safe now,’ he said.

Pavol tried to push himself up on his hands, his head shaking violently.

‘No,’ he managed through a clotted throat. ‘No.’

‘Shhh,’ said Yron. ‘You’re scared and hurt. Take your time. Come on, let me help you over.’

Using his knees as a pivot, Yron turned the young man over so his head lay in the officer’s lap. One of his men brought over a lantern and the two of them gasped.

Pavol’s face was shredded. The left side had been clawed away, taking his eye with it. Bite marks covered his neck, the punctures oozing blood, and there was a flap of skin hanging from a deep gash in his forehead that had poured blood over his face. His clothes were ripped and torn in a dozen places, his right hand was mangled and broken and across his stomach more claws had gouged their paths.

‘Erys!’ yelled Yron. ‘Where is that bloody mage?’

‘Here.’ Erys ran up with Ben-Foran.

‘Get to work. See what you can do, then we’ll get him inside,’ said Yron. ‘Ben, remember those leaves I showed you earlier? Not the snakebite ones, the others. Take one man and a lantern and collect as many as you can. Get them in a pot and boil them. Make a drink but don’t throw away the paste you have left behind. All right?’

‘Yes, Captain.’ Calling a man to him, Ben-Foran hurried away.

‘Erys?’ asked Yron.

The mage shook his head. ‘It’s bad, Captain. He’s lost a great deal of blood and he’ll be infected from all these gashes and cuts. There’s nothing I can do about the eye but we should wrap him up. He’s in shock. I’ll put him to sleep.’

‘N-n-no,’ stammered Pavol. ‘Let me sp-speak.’

‘Later,’ said Yron, smoothing back his blood-matted hair. ‘You have to rest now.’

Pavol reached round and gripped Yron’s arm fiercely, his single eye boring into his captain’s face.

‘They killed all of them,’ he said, each word dragging from his mouth. ‘The camp. All dead.’

Yron tensed and put a hand out to stop Erys casting.

‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Pavol, carefully now, tell me what you saw.’

‘Something,’ said Pavol, and he coughed blood which sprayed on to Yron’s face, ‘moved so quickly. I should have helped. But I just watched.’

‘What were they? What did they do?’ urged Yron. ‘Animals?’

‘No. Elves. Just one or two. I just watched them all die.’ The young man’s eye filled with tears and he blinked furiously. An ooze of gore slipped from his ruined orb. ‘Then I crept away and ran like a coward.’

Yron’s heart was thumping in his chest. What he feared most was about to come to pass.

‘You’re not a coward,’ he said. ‘You did exactly the right thing. There was nothing you could have done for our people. But you might just have saved all our lives.’ He looked down at Pavol’s torn body. ‘What did this? Jaguar?’

‘Panther,’ he rasped. ‘Big. Black. Stalked me for hours.’

‘A panther? But there are no . . .’ Yron’s voiced trailed away.

‘Attacked me only once. And those eyes. It looked at me. Almost . . . human.’

‘And it left you for dead?’ Erys’s curiosity got the better of him.

‘Yes,’ said Yron, his eyes scanning the dark cloak of the rainforest all around them.

‘Why?’

‘Because, Erys, that panther was not hunting for meat.’ Yron rubbed his mouth and chin. At least it couldn’t get any worse now.

‘Please,’ said Pavol. ‘It hurts.’

‘I know, son. We’ll save you.’

But Pavol was suddenly dead. Yron laid his head gently on the ground and turned to Erys, his mind racing with possibilities, a shiver of fear running down his back.

‘How’s your stamina, you and Stenys?’

‘Pretty good. Your herbs do a better job than I’d thought.’

‘Right. Get yourselves linked and commune with the ships. I want the reserve out now; I want them to establish defensive positions in front of the estuary entrance. Tell them we’re coming in teams. Get to it.’

‘That panther—’ began Erys.

‘Later. Go.’ Yron turned away. ‘Ben-Foran!’

His lieutenant ran over. ‘Sir.’

‘I want to see all the squads with cargo ready to go now. Any that aren’t ready, get them so. That includes the two with Erys and Stenys. They’re leaving now and there’ll be a change to their routes. We’ve just run out of time here.’

‘And the rest of us?’

Yron shrugged. ‘We get to buy them as much time as we can before we die.’

Rebraal stumbled again and crashed heavily into the trunk of a tree, only managing to turn his body at the last moment to avoid Mercuun taking the damage. His shoulder sang out its agony and a cry forced itself out of his mouth. He rested a few moments, panting hard, his pulse pounding in his head, his body soaked in sweat and his limbs shaking with exhaustion.

He had no idea how far he had travelled or for how long. All he knew was that it wasn’t far enough and that now, with night full around him, he was fading fast. His eyesight wandered in and out of focus and every step was a trial. He felt constantly nauseous and faint and he was waiting for his body to give out and for Tual to offer him up to the rainforest. Him and Mercuun.

He pushed himself away from the tree and plodded deliberately on, seeking vegetation he could force through without a blade as he had done all day. It added to the distance but there was no way he could do otherwise. Once he put Mercuun down, he didn’t think he’d have the strength to lift him again.

He ducked under a stand of broad leaves, his vision swimming again, the colours he could usually pick out so cleanly in the dark all washed out and running together. Again he was forced to stop while his head cleared, each time taking longer than the last, and it was then that he heard what he had most feared. The quiet padding of feet. The almost imperceptible movement of vegetation at odds with the ambient breeze. The careful placement and sinuous movement that spoke of the consummate hunter. Tual had spoken her wishes.

Rebraal was being stalked.

Shivering, his body wracked with the fever pumped around his bloodstream by his exertions, he forced himself on. Mercuun, unconscious for much of the time and incoherent the rest, was a draining weight in his arms. Rebraal knew he hadn’t the strength to fight the jaguar, if such it was, and his only hope was to carry on, hoping and praying the animal was diverted from its hunt.

He upped his pace, his body screaming at him to stop, his mind fogging and new blood seeping from the wound in his shoulder. He tripped across a root, dropped to his haunches under a low branch and drove himself upright, gasping. He broke into a trot, imagining the jaguar’s footsteps increasing, the shoulders moving under the sleek fur, the eyes piercing the night and the nostrils twitching as they caught the scent of blood.

Behind him, he heard the crack of a twig and the rustle of leaves. He ran, praying for respite or a hiding place. Mercuun bounced in his arms and moaned in his unconsciousness, the pain of his broken limbs finding him even there. Liana and vine slapped Rebraal’s face as he went; he twisted this way and that, jumped more roots, slid down a slight slope and forced himself up its other side. He dared not look behind him.

The sounds of the rainforest filled his ears, their volume increasing tenfold, twentyfold, as he ran. The croaking of frogs, the rasping of lizards, the scurrying of ants and spiders. He could hear it all so loud, mingled with his ragged breath as he fought for air. He heaved them over the lip of another incline, not stopping, rushing onwards, splashing through a stream, his skull echoing painfully to the awful noise that built and built.

He felt his legs half give but drove himself for another pace. And another. He ignored the shuddering of his arms and the lancing stabs through his back every time his foot went down. He had to escape the jaguar, he had to get to the village and warn them. The temple. By Yniss, the temple had to be retaken. He couldn’t fail or the harmony would be lost.

He raised his head to look for his route, his vision clouded again and a branch caught him squarely across the forehead.

Rebraal felt himself go as if in slow time. Even as his head rocked back from the impact, his legs carried on forward a pace. Impossibly unbalanced, his grip on Mercuun was lost and his broken friend tumbled out of his hands and away. He circled his arms desperately but still he fell back, landing in a tumble on the soft muddy forest floor, his head a mass of sparks, his senses all but gone.

He heard the sound of those feet running towards him, could feel their vibration through his tortured body.

‘I am sorry, Meru,’ he managed as he waited for the end. ‘I have failed you.’

The hot breath of the cat fired into his face. He looked up into the eyes of Tual’s creature to see the wonder of creation even as it tore his life from him but it was no jaguar. It was a panther, black as night with the light of sentience in its eyes. Its head darted in and licked at his cheeks and forehead, an impossibly comforting feeling as the rough tongue dragged at his skin.

He frowned, the last vestiges of his strength gone, too weak even to raise an arm, but as he faded to nowhere he heard a voice.

‘How fast you ran, brave Al-Arynaar. But now you can stop. We have found you. We will take you home.’

Ilkar had told them it would be different but he hadn’t managed to get across the magnitude of that difference. The rainforest was vast. Unbelievably vast. It covered everything that they could see and, the Julatsan assured them, a thousand times more that they couldn’t.

Sailing gently up the River Ix, they were hemmed in by walls of green on either side. The tallest trees towered over two hundred feet into the sky; their shorter cousins hung their branches into the water, sucking up the life that gave their colours such verdancy. But just as the forest seemed about to overwhelm them, the bank would cut suddenly away on one side, and the roaring they had been hearing for an hour would reveal itself as a waterfall, many hundreds of feet high, falling sheer down moss-covered rock into a deep plunge pool that fed straight into the Ix. And elsewhere they would glimpse huge gentle slopes, running away from shallow banks and up the sides of hills, that gave way in turn to spectacular mountains, thrusting through the all-conquering forest and up into the heavens.

And everyone but Aeb stared, stunned by the majesty of the land. The Protector betrayed no emotion and Hirad wanted to rip off his ebony mask and implore him to look, to laugh in delight at the beauty and to drink in his freedom. But to remove the mask would be to subject Aeb to torment at the hands of the demons who controlled his soul and the path between it and his body. Such was the curse of every Xeteskian Protector.

So Hirad tried not to think about it, and felt happy instead that some of what they saw brought light even to Erienne’s eyes.

Everywhere was gorged with life. From the vibrantly coloured birds that flew overhead to the jaguars they’d seen lapping at the water’s edge; to the snakes that curled around so many boughs of so many trees, and the lizards, rodents and huge hairy pig-like mammals that watched them with nervous eyes and snuffling snouts as they journeyed by. Below them yet more lurked and Hirad was glad of Ilkar’s warning.