Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

The barbarian scampered through the rubble and raced in through the opening of yet another half-fallen dwelling just a few paces behind the Xeteskian. And there, being circled slowly by the cat, sat a small child. A splash of light and colour and very much alive.

She wore a blue dress, and a matching scarf was tied around her long blonde hair. Her eyes were large and blue, and below her tiny nose was a mouth which displayed no humour. She was staring at the cat, following its slow movements around her, clutching a small chest in her bare arms.

‘Kill it, Hirad,’ hissed Denser. ‘Do it now and do it quickly.’

‘What?’ said Hirad. ‘No! Just take the chest and let’s get out of here.’ He made a move towards the girl but was stopped by Denser’s hand on his arm.

‘It’s not what it might seem,’ said the Dark Mage. ‘Open your eyes, Hirad. Do you really think she could live here as she is?’

The girl turned her gaze from the cat and to the two men at the doorway, noticing them for the first time.

‘Keep your sword ready,’ said Denser, drawing his own blade and taking a half-step to the side.

Hirad glanced at the mage’s face. It was set, his eyes were on the girl and they were scared. The barbarian hefted his blade.

‘Can’t you cast a spell or something?’

A shake of the head. ‘It won’t wait that long.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Hirad.

‘I’m not sure. Nothing ordinary. Septern must have created her. Just keep your eye on that chest. We mustn’t lose it or damage it.’

‘Whatever you say.’

The girl smiled. It was a gesture quite without feeling and it left her eyes cold. Hirad shivered. And when she spoke, though the sound of her voice was that of a nine-year-old, its weight and power set the back of his scalp crawling.

‘You are the first,’ she said. ‘And you shall be the last and only.’

‘And what are you?’ asked Denser.

‘I am your nightmare. I am your death.’ She moved. Lunged forward at blurring speed. And as she moved, she transformed. Hirad screamed.

The villagers closed. Ilkar, Talan and Richmond had backed to within half a dozen paces of the rip. The flanks moved inwards, forcing a still greater pressure on the press of skeletons scant feet from them.

Behind the lines lay the sheared bones of perhaps forty of the walking dead, victims of the hacking and slashing swords of the Raven trio. And now, with sweat-slick faces and lungs heaving, they were staring at imminent defeat.

‘We haven’t slowed them at all,’ rasped Talan, kicking the legs from under a skeleton and dashing its skull with the butt of his sword.

‘No impression,’ Ilkar agreed, and indeed there didn’t seem to be. Their immediate vision was still crowded with jostling arms, legs and the remains of wings. And all they could hear was the hollow sound of fleshless feet on the hard-packed earth and the click of bone on bone, over and over.

‘How many of them are there?’ said Richmond, straightening from a strike which had shattered three spines.

‘Hundreds.’ Talan shrugged. ‘Where the bastards come from, though, is another matter.’

They stepped back once more, feeling the edge of the rip at the backs of their thighs. They struck out again, sending slivers of bone flying and villagers crashing into one another. Still on came the dead. Never once raising their arms to attack, but then, it wasn’t necessary. They pressed in from the sides and the front and the sheer weight of their numbers made the end inevitable.

‘See you on the other side,’ said Ilkar. He was pushed backwards into the rip, and even as he fell, followed moments later by Talan and Richmond, he saw the skeletons turn and head back to the village.

The girl’s legs, suddenly brown, fur-covered and thick with muscle, thrust forwards, shooting her upright. Clawed feet scratched at the ground, a tail, spiked and leathery, sprouted from the small of her back, and as her dress melted away, it was replaced by a heaving bull chest with prominent ribs above a taut and hairless stomach. Her arms bulged to power, muscles bunched in her biceps and triceps, while those delicate hands swelled, grew and stretched, the fingers clawing to razor-sharp talons.

But the head. It was the head that drew the scream from Hirad’s lips. The girl’s face fell into itself like water down a hole but those eyes held, still blue until the last, when they too disappeared to be replaced by flat black slits. And out of the hole sprang forth fangs in a wide mouth, dripping saliva. The blonde hair remained; the brow was heavy, chin pointed and jaws snapping. A thin tongue licked out of the creature’s mouth and it hissed as it struck.

Reflexively, Hirad brought his sword in front of his face and the creature’s claw skittered off it, nicking the flesh. It howled in pain and backed off a step, small chest still clutched in the other clawed hand.

‘Fuck!’ spat Hirad, shaking all over and moving to cover Denser.

‘Careful, Hirad.’

‘What else do you think I’m going to be?’

The creature flew forwards again, arms flailing, tail whipping in front of it. Hirad side-stepped and slashed downwards into the blur of the attack, praying he’d connect before one of those talons raked or skewered him. His blade connected with wood, then flesh as it hammered through its arc. There was a keening wail, a whiplash sound and a heavy crash. Splinters of wood flew in all directions.

Hirad straightened, trying to take it all in. Denser was lying prone, half in and half out of the door to the building. He wasn’t moving. The creature had retreated to the back of the room, clutching at the stump of its left hand, trying in vain to stop the pulses of blood gouting from the wound. Its hand lay on the floor close to Hirad’s feet, and in amongst the debris of the broken wooden chest lay a single sheet of parchment, folded, brown and dog-eared.

Even as he laid his eyes on it, the barbarian heard the whimpering stop. He looked up into the feral, now yellow eyes of the beast as it rose to its feet, new hand growing out of the healing end of its arm.

‘Dear Gods,’ muttered Hirad.

The creature staggered slightly and clutched at a shelf to balance itself. Hirad snatched a dagger from his belt and hurled it forwards as he launched himself at the creature. The gleaming metal blade whirred through the air, catching the creature’s gaze. It traced the dagger’s flight, eyes narrowing until they all but disappeared under its brow.

Hirad moved forwards across the few feet that separated them, slashing at the creature’s neck as it switched its attention to him. The dagger, forgotten, slapped harmlessly into the wall of the building. The creature dodged the blow and whipped its tail into Hirad’s legs, tripping him. He fell, rolled and sat up on his haunches. The beast came on, still unsteady. Hirad scrambled to his feet and the two faced each other.

The creature bellowed, blowing hot, stinking breath into the barbarian’s face. Hirad stepped back a pace at the sound, so deep and powerful from so small a body. He switched his blade between his hands, three times; it finished in his left hand. He clamped his right hand above his left, stepped in again and brought the blade through in an upward left-to-right arc. The creature failed to follow the movement, its hands were too slow coming to its defence and the blade crashed into its pointed jaw, Hirad roaring as he forced the blade through its face to exit from its left eye. The split face sprayed blood and gore as its head snapped up and back on its neck, and the creature screeched and fell backwards, clutching at the sides of the gash.

Hirad stepped up, looked down on it, shuddered and drove his sword through its heart. Another screech and the creature jerked spasmodically and lay still.

‘Burn it.’

Hirad spun round and saw Denser sitting up, leaning against the door frame, massaging his side, his cat nuzzling his face from a perch on his shoulder.

‘Burn?’

‘Now. It’ll recover if you don’t.’

The barbarian turned back to the creature and saw immediately that it had begun to breathe.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. He sheathed his sword and scrabbled in his belt pouches for an oil flask. He pulled a tiny phial out along with his flint and steel.

‘Here,’ said Denser. A much larger flask rattled to the floor by Hirad’s feet.

‘This won’t burn properly, it’s lamp oil, isn’t it?’ said the barbarian, snatching it up.

‘Trust me, it’ll burn.’

Hirad shrugged and ran over to the creature. He sprinkled the oil over its furred body, spread some tinder on its chest by the wound in its heart, which was closing even now, and struck the flint and steel next to it. A sheet of flame instantly smothered the body. Hirad leaped back, wiping at the heat on his face.

The creature’s eyes flickered and opened. An arm twitched.

Hirad shook his head. ‘Too late.’ He drew his sword and repeated the stab to the heart. The beast lay still. He walked backwards, watching the fire take hold. Wood crunched under his foot. He glanced down and saw he’d trodden on the large part of the shattered chest. His foot was right next to the parchment; he stooped and picked it up.

‘Is it damaged?’ asked Denser from behind him.

‘No, I don’t think so. How about you?’

‘I’m all right, just winded.’ He rubbed his side. ‘We were lucky it was a parchment and not a crystal or something. That blow of yours would have finished our job rather abruptly, wouldn’t it?’

Hirad raised his eyebrows, ambled over and handed the parchment to Denser, helping the Dark Mage to his feet. Denser looked over his shoulder and nodded.

‘What was it?’

‘Sentient conjuration,’ said Denser. ‘It takes so long to cast, I never really bothered with it. Obviously Septern did.’ He turned his attention to the parchment.

‘Why was it a girl to start with?’

Denser stopped reading. ‘Well, a sentient conjuration is created for a specific purpose, in this case to protect this parchment. While they have no actual life, they can reason to a degree and that allows them to assess situations and react accordingly. I would guess the girl we saw was the image of a relative of Septern’s, because if the mage has clear memories, the image requires much less mana to create and sustain.’

‘But why—’

‘Hold on, I know what you’re thinking. The girl would have been the “at rest” manifestation, because the beast, something out of his nightmares by the look of it, would take too much mana to sustain, see?’

‘Kind of, but even so, three hundred years . . .’

‘Yes, quite. I can’t believe that even Septern, powerful though he must have been, could create a sentient conjuration able to exist for anything more than forty years at the absolute outside. Presumably the rips provided it with enough static mana to keep it going.’ Denser went back to the parchment, leaving Hirad to walk back towards the rip a few paces. All was quiet. He frowned and jogged further on.

‘Ilkar?’ he called. ‘Ilkar!’ Nothing. No answer, but no villagers either, and as he moved to the border of the village, he could see why. They had all dropped maybe eighty paces from the village, forming a carpet of bone. A line of cold ran up Hirad’s spine. If The Raven had managed to kill them all, then where were they? And if they hadn’t, then why had the skeletons fallen?

He turned a quick full circle, acutely aware of his isolation. Above him, the dark cloud boiled along, chased by an awesome wind he couldn’t hear. Below, flash followed flash as lightning deluged the lands beneath, while dotted across the skyline, like sentinels of some ancient doom, the other plateaux loomed, their shapes dim against the blackness, their presence fraying his courage. Where were The Raven? He prayed that they had returned through the rip. The alternatives were unthinkable.

‘Denser?’ He half-ran back to where the Dark Mage had been reading, but he wasn’t there. A spear of panic stole his breath before he spotted the Xeteskian walking in the other direction, towards the rip at the opposite end of the platform.

‘Denser!’ The mage turned. Hirad could see his pipe smoking gently. The cat was in his cloak, head alert, and Denser was stroking its head. Of the parchment there was no sign. ‘Have you read it?’

Denser nodded.

‘And?’ Hirad was still walking.

‘I couldn’t read it all. Ilkar’ll have to have a go too.’

Close to, Hirad could see something was amiss. Denser’s gaze seemed unfocused and he glanced now and then over his shoulder at the rip.

‘Are you all right? The Raven and the skeletons are all gone. Are you sure that thing didn’t hit you on the head?’

Denser raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘I’m sure they’re fine.’ He paused. ‘Hirad, have you ever just had to do something? You know, something your curiosity just wouldn’t let you forget?’

Hirad shrugged. ‘Probably. I don’t know. What are you on about?’

Denser turned and carried on towards the rip. For a moment, Hirad was confused. Just for a moment.

‘You have got to be joking!’ He set off after the mage.

‘I have to know. It’s just one of those things.’ Denser’s step quickened.

‘What has got into you?’ Hirad broke into a trot. ‘You can’t do it, Denser. You can’t afford to. We’ve got—’ He put a hand on Denser’s shoulder. The cat slashed at it with a claw, missing as he snatched it back. The Dark Mage turned a hard-set face to him. His eyes were lost, adrift in his churning mind.

‘Don’t touch us, Hirad,’ he said. ‘And don’t try to stop us.’ He turned his face away, strode to the rip and jumped into it.

Seconds later the cat was back. It fell from the rip in an ungainly jumble of limbs, hit the ground and sprinted behind Hirad, scattering stones and grit.

The barbarian stared at it, its coat ruffled and flecked with dust, stomach heaving as it dragged air into its lungs. Its tail was coiled tightly under its hind legs and its eyes were fixed on the rip, waiting. It was shaking all over.

‘Oh, no,’ Hirad breathed. He took half a pace towards the swirling brown mass before a shimmer in its surface stopped him. Denser plunged out and sprawled in the dirt. His face was sheet-white.

‘Thank the Gods,’ muttered the barbarian, but his lips tightened in anger. He helped Denser to a sitting position, feeling the mage quivering beneath his hands. He slapped some debris from his cloak.

‘You satisfied now?’

‘It was black,’ said Denser, gesturing with his hands, not looking up. ‘It was all black.’

‘Make sense, Denser.’ The mage locked eyes with him, his pupils huge.

‘Burned and burning. It was all ruined, cracked and black. It made this place look alive. The ground was all black and the sky was full of Dragons.’

It was a line straight from Hirad’s dream. The barbarian straightened and took an involuntary pace backwards. He swallowed hard and gazed at the rip. Beyond it, his nightmare lived.

The enormity of Denser’s action hit him like a runaway horse. He switched his stare to the mage, who was on his feet.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

Denser nodded, half smiled. The barbarian’s punch caught him square on the jaw, knocking him down hard.

‘What the—’ he began.

Hirad leant over him and grabbed the neck of his cloak, pulling their faces close.

‘What did you think you were doing?’ the barbarian rasped, his anger burning, his brow a thundercloud. ‘You could have thrown it all away.’

‘I . . .’ Denser looked blank.

Hirad shook him. ‘Shut up! Shut up and listen to me. You took the parchment through there. What if you’d never come back? Your precious mission would have been over, and my friends’ – he drew a deep breath – ‘my friends who died for you would have died for nothing.’ He dropped the mage back into the dirt and placed a foot on his chest. ‘If you ever try anything like that again, I won’t stop until your face is inside out. Understand?’

Hirad heard a whispering sound behind him. Denser looked past him, his eyes widened and he shook his head. Hirad turned, removing his foot from the supine mage. Denser’s cat bored a stare of undisguised malevolence into him. He flinched, then grunted.

‘Your cat going to sort me out, was it?’

‘You’re a fortunate man, Hirad.’

The barbarian swung round. ‘No, Denser, you are. I should kill you. The trouble is, I’m beginning to believe you.’ He stalked away through the village towards the first rip and, he hoped, The Raven. If there was anything left of it.

Chapter 12

Dropping to the ground in Septern’s study, Hirad caught Ilkar’s eye. The elf smiled. To his left, Talan stopped in the act of shouldering his pack. Hirad gathered his thoughts as his heart rate returned to something approaching normal.

‘I said not to come back,’ he said.

Talan shrugged. ‘You’re Raven.’

Hirad sucked his lip, nodded his thanks.

‘Did you find anything?’ asked Ilkar.

Hirad inclined his head.

‘Where’s Denser?’ Richmond was frowning.

‘Thinking hard, I hope,’ replied Hirad.

‘What about?’

‘His responsibilities. And how he treats The Raven – alive or dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Hirad didn’t reply immediately. He dusted himself down and turned to the rip. Its surface shimmered.

‘Perhaps you’d better ask the great explorer himself,’ he said.

Denser emerged from the rip, his cat right behind him. He studiously avoided Hirad’s cold gaze, choosing to examine the floor as he steadied himself. Presently, he rose to his feet. The cat jumped into his cloak. Denser rubbed his chin, pulled the parchment from a pocket and handed it to Ilkar. The elf examined the reddening area on the point of Denser’s jaw. He pursed his lips and looked past the Dark Mage to Hirad as he took the parchment. Hirad flexed the fingers of his right hand.

‘This is it, is it?’ asked Ilkar. Denser nodded. ‘Well?’

‘Some of it’s Julatsan lore, just like the amulet. I need you to help me understand it.’

‘I see.’

The two men walked over to Septern’s desk, where a lantern cast light enough to read by.

Hirad sat down. Talan and Richmond came over and squatted by him, wanting answers to questions. Hirad obliged and sketched in the events in the village, always with one eye on the mage pair, whose body language and hurried voices suggested problems. Hirad also had questions of his own, and The Raven warriors’ shaken heads and dulled sword blades provided ample answers.

It wasn’t too long before Denser and Ilkar had finished and moved back to the centre of the rip in front of the three fighting men. Ilkar held the parchment, his face troubled. Denser stared impassively at Hirad. The barbarian ignored him and addressed Ilkar.

‘So, what’s the plan, my friend?’ he asked.

‘Well, there’s good news and really really bad news. The good is that we know what we have to do. The bad is that we have next to no chance of doing it.’

‘He’s always been good at making things sound attractive, hasn’t he?’ Talan raised his eyebrows.

‘A master,’ said Richmond drily.

‘Spell it out then,’ said Hirad. ‘No pun intended.’

‘Right,’ the Julatsan began. He glanced at Denser, who motioned him to continue. ‘Septern, as we keep saying, was very clever. When he constructed the spell and worked out how powerful it actually was, he wrote three catalysts into its lore without which it would not work. Catalysts can be any number and anything the mage chooses; Septern could have chosen a mug of beer if he’d wanted. The point is that once the lore is written, it can’t be changed, and Septern chose three catalysts he knew it would be all but impossible to bring together in one place.

‘This parchment is the complete spell, and while it doesn’t tell how the catalysts underpin Dawnthief, it gives their names and locations as he knew them.’ He paused. The room was silent. ‘You ready for this?’

Richmond shrugged. ‘I doubt it,’ he said.

‘So do I,’ said Ilkar grimly. He referred to the parchment. ‘The first is a Dordovan Ring of Authority. Now, all four Colleges have these. They are worn by Lore Masters and are signs of rank and seniority. All Rings of Authority are individually designed and cast and are only ever worn by the one Master. When he or she dies, the ring is buried with them. The particular ring Septern names belonged to the Lore Master Arteche, and so will be in his tomb in Dordover.’

Talan shifted. ‘So we have to go into a College City, break into their Masters’ mausoleum and take this ring, right?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’ Ilkar had the grace to appear apologetic at least.

‘Can’t we just ask them to hand it over?’ asked Richmond.

‘Come on, man, think!’ snapped Denser. ‘We’d be asking a College to desecrate its tombs and we couldn’t tell them why because they’d try to control the spell. It has to be a theft and they mustn’t know until afterwards.’

‘Going to give the ring back later on, are you?’ Talan’s laugh was dismissive.

‘I expect I will be forced to, Talan, yes.’

‘Too bloody right you will,’ muttered Hirad.

‘Can we discuss this later, do you think?’ Ilkar waved the parchment. ‘There’s more, and it doesn’t get any better.’

‘I can’t wait.’ Talan stretched out his legs.

‘The second catalyst is the Death’s Eye Stone.’

‘I’ve heard of that, haven’t I?’ Richmond aimed the question at Denser, who nodded.

‘I expect you have,’ replied the mage. ‘It’s the centrepiece of the Wrethsires’ religion.’

‘That’s right. Death worshippers, aren’t they?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Don’t they have some magic?’ He ground his teeth, thinking hard.

‘Oh, yeah, “the fifth College”.’ Denser glanced across at Ilkar, his face all but dripping contempt. Ilkar huffed. ‘They have no lore, no history and no mana ability. That they presume to liken themselves to the four Colleges is not only outrageous but a slur against magic itself.’

‘But you’re right, Richmond,’ said Ilkar. ‘They do worship Death in the belief it’ll free them from eternal damnation, or something like that, and they do have some form of altered magic which they don’t fully understand. It makes them dangerous.’

‘They’re going to love us, aren’t they?’ grumbled Hirad. ‘Stealing their most important artefact.’

Ilkar shrugged. ‘Denser never said we could pick the sodding things up from the market, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ said Hirad. ‘He never wanted to tell us anything at all. I didn’t choose to get involved in this and have my life totally screwed up, so if I want to moan about things I have to do that seem beyond my control; or about how he—’ he stabbed a finger at Denser, ‘has been responsible for the deaths of my friends, I will bloody well do so.’

Denser sighed. Hirad tensed but made no move.

‘Have you got a problem with that, Xetesk man?’

‘No, he hasn’t,’ said Ilkar quickly. ‘Now then, the third catalyst.’ He scanned The Raven, daring anyone to speak further. ‘Right. Now this one poses a problem of location, because it’s the Badge of Office of the Understone Pass Guard Commander.’ There was a contemplative silence.

‘But the Korina Trade Alliance lost Understone Pass nine years ago. There isn’t a commander any more,’ said Talan at length. He took the parchment from Ilkar, frowning at the lore script it contained.

‘Exactly,’ said Ilkar. ‘So where is the Badge?’

Another silence. Hirad tried hard to suppress a smile but failed. He gave a short laugh and stood up.

‘And you buggers are always accusing me of not knowing my history!’ he said.

Ilkar frowned at him. ‘Explain.’

‘When the pass was opened, the Badge of Office was given to Baranck, the first Commander, by the Baron Council, which, as I’m sure you’re all aware, was the forerunner of the Korina Trade Alliance. That must have been over five hundred years ago – before the Wytch Lords came to power the first time.

‘It was a purely ceremonial pendant but the regulation stated that it was not to be removed from the pass unless it was lost. In that event, the Badge was to be taken by the defeated Commander and kept as a standard for the forces who would eventually retake the pass.’ He stared around a row of blank faces.

‘Must I spell it out?’

‘I think so, Hirad, yes,’ said Ilkar.

‘Gods above, Ilkar, we were talking about him on the road the other day.’

‘Were we?’

‘Yes. And it looks as if I’ll be getting my wish sooner than I thought.’ Hirad bared his teeth. ‘The last commander was Captain Travers.’

The loss of their Destranas would normally have led to harsh discipline, even death, but this time their information bought their lives. A day’s ride from their encounter with The Raven near Septern’s long barn, the Wesmen scouts stood in the centre of a clearing in dense woodland, speaking to their Shaman, who sat under canvas, drinking a colourless strength-giving spirit.

‘It is as the Masters expected,’ said the leader of the party. ‘Easterners are searching the old house.’

The Shaman nodded and placed his cup on the ground. ‘I must relate the news immediately. Prepare to leave. I think war may be very close.’

There was no argument. It wasn’t just that the Black Wings’ castle was the nearest of the three catalyst locations. That wouldn’t have figured as an issue. The fact was that Hirad was not interested in going anywhere else until Travers and all the Black Wings were dead. With the day not far past its mid-point, The Raven ate a leisurely meal in the ruins of Septern’s house before taking the horses back to the long barn. Hirad eventually agreed that they should not move on any further until the next morning; Ilkar’s insistence that they give themselves the maximum daylight to escape the boundaries of the rip’s influence was unshakeable. And the barbarian had to concede that a night spent in the total security afforded by Septern’s sealed workshop, where no one had to stand guard, no one had to keep a fire tended and no one had to react to every sound, was a very attractive prospect.

The smoke from the camp fire continued to spiral calmly into the sky as the afternoon waned towards dusk. Richmond snapped a branch into three and added it to the small blaze, dry leaves crackling as they caught in the heat. Denser, having lost the toss earlier in the afternoon, was leaning against a wall, reading Septern’s journal now that Ilkar had finished with it. His pipe was, as ever, clamped between his teeth, and his head never wavered, rapt in the information he was assimilating.

Faint sounds from the workshop below told that Denser’s Familiar was still rooting around in Septern’s other equipment and papers. The Dark Mage had cautioned them not to go down there. With Talan outside somewhere trying to make sense of the immediate area to give them some semblance of a route the following morning, Ilkar and Hirad were left to sit together in the wan sunlight.

‘This Familiar,’ said Hirad. ‘What is it when it’s not a cuddly cat?’ Ilkar looked askance. ‘I don’t think you could ever accuse it of being “cuddly”, Hirad. You’re lucky it missed you with those claws back in the village . . . Look, about that incident—’

‘Oh, Gods, here we go.’ Hirad placed his goblet on the ground and folded his arms. ‘All right, let’s have it, I shouldn’t antagonise him, he’s too powerful, right?’

Ilkar eyed Denser. The Dark Mage hadn’t raised his head from the book. The elf cut his voice to barely more than a whisper.

‘That’s pretty much the size of it, yes. Now listen . . . and don’t sigh like that, this is important. Not only is he too powerful, although I concede you won that last round, he’s too central to this whole thing for you to pick fights with him.’

‘I wasn’t picking a fight,’ hissed Hirad.

‘Will you let me finish?’ Ilkar’s ears pricked in irritation. ‘Officially, now that we have all the knowledge – you know, the words and the whereabouts of the catalysts – we could ditch Denser and try this out ourselves. But as I said the other day, he’s the only one with the teaching to cast Dawnthief with any chance of success at all. Do you follow me?’

‘What do you think?’

It was Ilkar’s turn to sigh. He briefly put a hand over his face. ‘Right. Umm, when you practise alone with a sword, it’s with a dummy opponent, yes?’

‘A hanging sack or maybe a mirror.’ Hirad shrugged.

‘But you don’t know that the moves you’re trying will work until a fight, do you?’

‘I can’t argue with that.’

‘And if you didn’t practise them at all, you’d have no control over them, would you?’

‘What is this, a test?’

‘Just answer the question,’ said Ilkar. ‘I’m trying to put it in terms you’ll understand.’

‘Fair enough.’ Hirad shifted, took another gulp of his wine. ‘No, Ilkar, I’d have no control over them, and what’s more, I wouldn’t even think of trying them in a fight. Satisfied?’

‘Yes, and it’s the same with spell-casting. Exactly the same.’ Ilkar moved so that he was squatting in front of Hirad. ‘If I try to cast a spell I haven’t practised, it stands a good chance of not working, maybe even going wrong, and that can be fatal. Denser has trained all of his life in the casting of Dawnthief, so he knows in theory how to say the words, shape the mana and so forth. There’s no guarantee it’ll work in a live situation but, like you and your training, he’ll be confident of success and he’ll find out when push comes to shove. Do you understand now?’

‘Yes. So I won’t kill him.’ Hirad leaned in close to Ilkar. ‘But I will not have him risking himself that stupidly if he is so bloody crucial to all this. And I will not have him take chances with the memories of my friends!’ Hirad’s voice was audible all across the ruin. The noise in the workshop stopped, Denser looked up from his reading and Richmond paused in the act of hanging a pot of water over the now resurgent fire.

After a brief stare in which Hirad saw Denser smile thinly in Ilkar’s direction, the Xeteskian buried his head once again.

‘Anyway, so what about this Familiar, then?’

‘Well, it’s likely to be some kind of semi-intelligent winged demon, or so I’ve been taught.’ Ilkar gave a slight shrug. ‘That’s the only reason I can think of for Denser being so anxious that we don’t see it out of cat-form.’ Hirad’s face was completely blank. The elf closed his eyes. ‘You may have learnt about Travers, Coldheart, but in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve clearly never listened to a word I’ve said, have you?’

‘Well, most of the time you were talking about magic and all that rubbish.’ Hirad grinned.

‘You seem pretty keen to learn about it now,’ returned the mage.