Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 132 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 42

Yron waited and waited. He threw the windows of his chambers wide to let in the fresh air, he paced the room, he ate from the fruit bowl on a side table, he plunged his head into the cold water of his wash bowl. He played word games in his mind, he fenced against the full-length mirror, polished his already gleaming axe and holster. Anything to focus his mind, sober up and stay awake.

He waited while the college quietened and the last of the revellers staggered to their chambers. He waited while the servants cleaned the banqueting chamber, cleaned the table and mopped the floors. He waited until the deepest depths of the night. And only then did he slip from his room, rough travel cloak covering his new clothes, cleaned leather and glittering axe holster, and into Erys’s room.

The mage was lost to sleep, flat on his back and snoring gently. A smile played on his face and his arms were flung wide across the luxurious bed. Yron placed one hand over Erys’s mouth and shook him hard awake. The mage’s eyes flew open and his hands scrabbled at Yron’s in sudden panic, only relaxing when he saw the captain’s smile. Yron removed his hand.

‘Don’t worry. Just me,’ he whispered. ‘Get up.’

‘What the hell is going on?’ Erys hissed. ‘It’s the middle of the bloody night!’

‘I’ll explain while you dress. We’ve got to do something. Now.’

Erys frowned and passed a hand over his head, breathing out heavily. ‘Is this your idea of a hilarious joke?’

‘No,’ said Yron sharply, dragging the covers from Erys. ‘Now get up. And you’d better be able to cast.’

‘I’ll see what I can do. Never tried it after so much wine.’ He sighed and heaved himself from the bed, heading for the wash bowl. He poured a jug of water over his head. ‘So what’s it all about, Captain?’

Yron told him, and by the time he had dressed Erys looked both awake and stone cold sober.

‘You are with me, aren’t you?’ asked Yron as he walked to Erys’s door.

‘I can’t be a party to genocide, unwitting or not,’ said Erys.

‘I thought not. Now, Dystran will have taken the thumb to his chambers.’

‘You’d better hope not. Have you any idea how many Protectors guard him up there?’ Erys jerked a thumb upwards.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Yron.

‘Don’t worry about it? Are you crazy? It only takes one, unless you’ve got an even better axe arm than I think you have.’

‘Just show me the way.’

Erys closed his eyes for a heartbeat and led the way from his chambers into the silence of the Tower. The two men walked back past the banqueting and audience chambers, down the darkened corridors that made up the wide base of the Tower and back towards the main doors.

Before they got there, Erys directed them down a left turn, through a curtained entrance and around another sharp bend and into a small oval chamber. The walls were lined with benches and hung with portraits of Lords of the Mount long dead. Directly ahead of them, in front of an intricately carved heavy wooden door, stood a pair of Protectors, silent and unmoving.

‘You’d better be right about this,’ said Erys.

‘Have faith, boy,’ said Yron.

He walked forward, feeling none of the confidence he hoped he was exuding, and stood before the Protectors. For one hideous moment he felt their hostile eyes sizing him up and thought he’d got it all horribly wrong.

‘You will not harm him,’ said one, and the pair turned away, their backs forming a passage to the now unguarded door.

Yron turned the handle and opened the door inwards, its travel silent on oiled hinges. He beckoned the open-mouthed Erys on and began to climb the spiral stair in front of him. It was carved from a pillar of marble and set on the western side of the Tower’s central shaft. Above, six levels ending in Dystran’s private chambers. Below, entrance to the catacombs and labs and the passages that criss-crossed under the college.

‘How did you organise that?’ said Erys.

‘I didn’t,’ said Yron. ‘I’ll explain later.’

Taking every step gently, his boots ghosting the surface, Yron climbed, refusing to let himself think about where he was or what he was doing. His heart thudded in his chest, his palms were damp and his breathing was shallow and rushed. His limbs were shaking and his muscles felt weak. He forced himself to go on, one step at a time.

They passed level after level. At each one, a Protector stood on a tapestry-hung landing in front of a door to a set of offices, personal audience chambers or guest rooms. Each masked man stood silent, watching them pass and making no move to interfere.

‘This is suicide,’ whispered Erys.

‘And if we don’t, it’s genocide,’ said Yron, pleased at his clever response.

Finally, they stood at Dystran’s door and it all came home to him. He, Captain Yron, was about to enter the most private chambers of the Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, Balaia’s single most powerful man, and steal a prized treasure. He shuddered the length of his body as the pair of Protectors moved a pace aside to allow him entry.

‘Just the thumb,’ he whispered. ‘Nothing else.’

Centre stage of the big open room was Dystran’s curtained bed. To the left, a screened-off washing area, to the right, wardrobe and dressing areas, and at the foot of the bed, the prize. Yron saw it immediately and held out an arm.

‘Stay there,’ he said, voice barely audible. ‘Keep the door open.’

Erys nodded and Yron stepped delicately into the room, his boots soundless on the thick rugs that covered the stone floor. On a table flanked by tall candle stands, on a silk-covered dish, rested the thumb of Yniss.

Sweat ran into Yron’s eyes and he wiped it away, smearing his palm against his cloak. He leaned over the table and reached out a quivering hand. He swallowed hard and picked up the fragment, finding its touch cool and comfortable. He took in a grateful breath and slipped it into his pocket. He turned to smile at Erys but the look on the mage’s face froze him where he stood.

He was looking to Yron’s right. The captain twisted his head as far as he could and peered out of the corner of his eye. The curtains around the bed were moving. A long slender leg appeared, followed by the rest of a naked woman. For two glorious paces, she moved directly towards the screened-off area and then, as if feeling their eyes upon her, she stopped and turned gracefully towards them.

‘Oh shit,’ breathed Yron, and he moved, fast.

She was going to scream. Reflexively, she covered herself with her hands and arms, drew in breath and opened her mouth wide. Yron’s punch took her square on the jaw and she staggered back, falling dazed to thump against the floor, head bouncing on the rugs. She yelped once and lay still.

A groggy voice sounded from inside the curtains and they moved again. Dystran’s head appeared. He took in the woman sprawled on the ground and Yron standing over her and very close to him.

‘Oh, no,’ said Yron.

‘What the fu—’

Yron’s fist swung again, swiping into the side of Dystran’s head. The Lord of the Mount grunted and sprawled but remained conscious.

‘Erys, get in here. He needs to sleep very deeply.’

Dystran dragged the curtains aside.

‘Guards!’ he barked, before Yron got a hand over his mouth.

Erys was casting as he came, Protectors only a couple of paces behind him. A touch from the mage and Dystran stopped struggling and slumped. Yron laid him down gently and faced the two masked warriors, both of whom had axes ready.

‘He’s not hurt. Just sleeping. Please.’

‘Your time is short,’ said one. ‘Run.’

‘See me go,’ said Yron. ‘Erys.’

Yron sprinted from the chamber, Erys a beat behind him, and clattered down the stairs.

‘Erys, which way at the base?’

‘Dystran’ll have a pulse out. The college will be waking,’ said Erys.

‘Don’t tell me how bad it is; tell me how we get out.’

‘Straight through the front of the Tower and head right to the long rooms. Let’s go for the west gate.’

Yron nodded. It made sense. They could lose themselves in the artisans’ quarter of the city more easily than anywhere else. He leaped the last step, slid by the Protectors in the oval room and kept on going, rounding the bend, tearing the curtain aside and racing towards the front door of the Tower.

As he headed across the marble entrance hall to the door, it opened and a pair of mages strode in. Yron ran straight at them while they dithered, shouldering one aside hard, sending him crashing into a wall. There was a crack behind him as Erys straight-armed the other.

They burst into the night, seeing torches and lanterns waving all over the college grounds as their holders ran towards the Tower. Going right, they raced round the base of the Tower, Erys dragging Yron right again and down the side of the first long room. Erys now leading, they turned behind a lecture theatre, along the side of the refectory and into the press of narrow passageways around the barracks and stables. Beneath a stone stairway to a hayloft, they stopped to catch their breath.

All around them, sounds of pursuit echoed in the dark. Harsh voices organised search parties and doors banged open near them, feet clattering down stairs and across cobbles.

‘No one’s going to open a gate for us,’ said Yron. ‘Any ideas?’

‘The postern door by the west gate,’ said Erys, breathing hard. ‘It’s small enough. I can focus a ForceCone, probably crack it.’

‘Probably?’

‘Definitely,’ said Erys. ‘It may not burst but a kick should finish it.’

‘You’d better be right,’ said Yron.

‘Your turn to trust me.’

Yron waited while Erys gathered himself and formed the shape of a ForceCone in his mind. His eyes moved under closed lids, his hands teasing at the mana Yron would never see. The captain was in awe of mages; they were blessed with a vision he couldn’t imagine and an ability at which he could only guess. Erys opened his eyes.

‘Let’s go,’ he said, voice elsewhere as he concentrated hard.

Yron led off, pacing evenly down the passage, keeping himself hidden in deep shadow. Twenty yards ahead, a team of soldiers ran across their path. Yron slowed further, approaching the crossway. Beyond it a short run and then the open space by the west gate. It might be full of men and mages. There was only one way to find out. He listened at the crossway. All was quiet in the immediate surroundings. Offering a short prayer, he hurried across the space, Erys behind him. His ears strained for the shout that would tell them they had been seen but he heard nothing.

He began to hope. Dangerous, he knew, but he did it anyway. At the end of the passage he could see flickering lights and hear more voices. He crept up to the corner; the walls to left and right were the mana bowl and the infirmary. Three paces from the end and a figure strode into the passage, tall and masked. Yron’s heart sank and he drew his sword.

‘Keep behind me, Erys,’ he said.

The Protector marched towards them, axe and sword ready. He stopped in front of Yron, looked at him briefly, and walked on.

‘Now or never,’ said Erys over Yron’s relief.

The postern gate was a forty-yard run directly across the marshalling area for the Xeteskian cavalry. Only a few soldiers were there and all were moving to join the search.

‘When you start, keep running, Captain. I have to stop to cast then I’ll be right behind you.’

Yron nodded. He didn’t want to leave Erys but there was no choice. ‘Don’t get caught,’ he said. ‘Ready? Let’s go.’

The two men sprinted into the yard and had covered ten yards before the shouts went up. Left and right, soldiers ran in to cut them off. Yron pushed harder. Crossbow bolts skipped off the ground at his feet. He heard Erys slide to a stop.

‘Good luck,’ he breathed and, giving Erys clear sight of the door, ran on.

The air was full of torchlight and shouts for him to stop. Behind him, he heard Erys’s command word, felt the shadow of the spell rush past him and saw the postern gate buckle outwards, hearing timbers creak and snap. He glanced over his shoulder, saw the mage surge to his feet and chase after him.

Left and right, his former colleagues closed in, yelling warnings, urging him to give himself up. Fresher and mostly younger, they were gaining fast, and he knew if he stopped at the gate he’d be caught. Already feeling the pain he was about to experience, he ate up the last few yards and shoulder-charged the spell-weakened iron-bound oak gate.

As he struck he didn’t think it would give, but, with the crack of splitting timber, the gate gave way and he sprawled out into the streets of Xetesk. His shoulder shrieked in pain as he dragged himself to his feet, sparing a glance back inside.

‘Come on, Erys!’ he shouted.

The mage was running hard, head down, legs and arms pumping. Framed in the gate arch he seemed so close to freedom. But from the side, a soldier rushed in, swung his sword and caught Erys a glancing blow across the shoulder. Yron saw the blood spray and Erys tumble heavily onto the cobbles before an arrow whipping past his head brought him back to himself and he tore off into the maze of roads, alleys and passages that made up Xetesk’s artisans’ quarter, cursing all the way.

Merke and her Tai were deep inside Xetesk. They and seven other TaiGethen cells were scouting the city at night, looking for information, looking for weaknesses but above all looking for a way into the Dark College itself. For all the Xeteskian soldiers and mages marching to battle the other colleges, the walls, the Protectors and their watchers, the TaiGethen had pierced the city defences easily enough, scaling the walls in four places and scattering into the night.

Three cells were combing residential areas, two were around the markets and three studied the college itself, including Auum’s. But for once he had not chosen the right place. From where Merke, Inell and Vaart were hidden, overlooking one of the gates of the college, they had seen an extraordinary sight.

Right before them, a side gate had buckled. Heartbeats later, a man had crashed through, rolling over, dragging himself to his feet and running from the college, heading down an alley not twenty yards from them. They waited for the pursuit and it duly came: men with swords and the masked Protectors, splitting into groups of three, four and five, scattering into the blank shadows of the warehouses and stinking foundries. Some ran straight past them, others took the alley their quarry had used.

Merke looked at her Tai. Vaart shrugged.

‘The one running is more likely an ally than an enemy.’

‘It’ll do as a reason for now,’ said Merke.

The Tai moved, ghosts over the ground, unslinging bows, un-snapping jaqrui pouches and scabbard covers. Merke was ahead, Inell and Vaart left and right, emerging from the alley where they’d watched it all unfold, across the front of a warehouse and down its far side.

The blank walls of its neighbour were no more than fifteen feet away, sheer sides rising up better than thirty feet to angled tiled roofs. They hemmed in the TaiGethen like no rainforest ever could, the smells of city life mixing with the drab buildings to produce a place Merke couldn’t believe any sane man would want to live. But live here they did. And die.

Merke whispered over the ground, sword and jaqrui ready, bows flanking her. Ahead, she could make out the figures of four men hurrying down the alley. They turned left and disappeared. She heard calls and shouts and upped her pace, rounding the corner. It led to a dead end and a man trapped against a high stone wall.

He was facing the quartet like a warrior, upright, with his axe ready as they approached him, two of them in masks, one weaponless, the other with a crossbow. They were speaking to him and he was shaking his head.

‘Left and right,’ she whispered.

Arrows flew, punching through the necks of the masked men, who fell without a sound. Her jaqrui wailed away, its keening sound setting roosting birds to flight. The weaponless man, a mage, turned in time to see it flash into the bridge of his nose. He screamed and fell.

Taking his chance, the hunted man leaped forward, one arm hanging limp, the other holding his axe effectively enough. Panicked, the crossbowman fired, taking him in the thigh, but he came on, blade smashing into the man’s face around his mouth, splitting the base of his skull and sending him crashing against a wall to slide dead to the ground.

He ignored the corpse and sized up the Tai, Merke a little confused at his reaction. There seemed to be no relief that he had been saved, only a sort of weary resignation. He stooped, wiped his blade clean and resheathed the weapon in a gaudy impractical-looking holster and held out his hands in a gesture of peace.

Merke walked forward, her Tai with bows ready and tensed.

‘Please,’ he said in serviceable elvish. ‘I have what you need. Let me help you.’

‘Then we will take it from you,’ said Merke. ‘Give me the thumb. No stranger should carry a shard of Yniss. You cannot help us.’

The man nodded and dug in a pocket, producing the statue fragment. Beside her, Vaart and Inell dropped to their knees in prayer. The stranger held out the piece reverently. Merke took it, kissed it and offered prayers that it had been returned.

‘It is ours once more,’ she said. ‘Harmony will be restored.’

She turned and gestured her Tai to rise, catching Vaart’s eye. He nodded minutely and she looked back over her shoulder.

‘You are hunted here,’ she said to the man.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am . . .’ He struggled for the word. ‘Unpopular.’

Merke smiled briefly. ‘You have done us a great service. We will take you out of here.’

‘Thank you,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘Auum will want to know why. Follow. Do not tire. We will not wait.’

Chapter 43

‘My Lord, please calm down,’ said Ranyl.

‘I can’t think of a single reason why.’ Dystran nursed his cheek, feeling the tender bruising that covered it for the most part.

‘He will be found,’ said Ranyl. ‘But you have other matters to attend to urgently.’

‘Excuse me, dear friend,’ said Dystran, ‘but I do not. In case it escaped your attention, that bastard marched right into my bedroom and all the while my Protectors, whom I mistakenly assumed had no option but to protect me, were staring at their boots.’

‘My Lord, it isn’t—’

‘I could have been killed!’ Dystran heaved himself from his chair by the study fire, walked past the nervously fidgeting Ranyl and went to the windows to look out at dawn breaking over Xetesk. ‘Gods burning, I know Lords of the Mount have been assassinated in the past but never in the central Tower bedroom. That is not the sort of history I was planning on making.’

‘My Lord, you were in no danger of death,’ said Ranyl.

‘Oh, I am so relieved. Just a beating, then,’ said Dystran, turning back into the room. ‘And how did you come by that knowledge? The Protectors tell you?’

Ranyl nodded. ‘We are undertaking a thorough investigation.’

‘Hold on. Are you telling me that Xeteskian Protectors were complicit in the theft?’ Dystran frowned. ‘Is that possible? How did Yron gain such influence?’

‘Not Yron. He was merely the beneficiary of arrangements made for others.’

‘Then who . . . ?’ But he knew. He bloody knew. And Ranyl’s nod merely confirmed it for him. ‘The Raven. Is there something else you want to tell me about last night’s events?’

‘Our strike team was unsuccessful.’

Dystran shook his head slowly and kneaded his forehead. He was still slightly muddled from the spell Erys had cast but it was clearing fast.

‘Please entertain me with the details.’

‘As you know, my Lord, you yourself only authorised three Familiars, six mages and twelve swordsmen due to the war situation we find ourselves in. We have heard nothing from them. Word from the Soul Tank is that The Raven killed them all.’

‘Dear Gods, I am defended by incompetents and cretins. It was the middle of the night. They should all have been asleep bar a guard.’

Ranyl made an apologetic gesture. ‘The Raven are an exceptional group of people.’

‘I just don’t understand it,’ said Dystran, feeling the rage build inside him. ‘I do not understand it! I am supposed to be the most powerful man in Balaia yet some bunch of ageing mercenaries thirty miles away is managing to screw up all my plans. They turn Protectors into pussycats at will and it’s probably them that sent the elves in to snatch Yron from under our noses. This is a bloody walled city. How the fuck did they get in and out so easily? How is all this possible? Please tell me, Ranyl. I’d be really interested to know.’

Dystran watched for Ranyl’s reaction. He’d suffered these outbursts before and like the previous times his calm was commendable.

‘We will have answers to all your questions in due course. However, I think you will find that the elves are acting quite independently. And remember, we have the Aryn Hiil and a wealth of Al-Drechar research. Your original plans are still achievable.’

‘That makes me feel so much better,’ said Dystran caustically. ‘And how many years do we have to keep Dordover and the elven nation from our gates until we’re ready to use our new knowledge, eh? Let me tell you what’s going to happen. We are going to find Yron and the statue fragment and both are to be brought back to me undamaged. Commit as many men as you can without compromising our city defence and our main battle fronts. That is all that matters.’

‘And The Raven and Aeb?’

‘Use them. Track them and you’ll track the thumb; we know it’s what they’re after. As for Aeb, we’ll take him back when the time is right, but for now he’s more useful where he is. Now then, these more pressing matters?’

‘The war outside our gates, which has taken a turn for the worse,’ said Ranyl.

‘Oh yes, how could I forget?’

Dystran closed his eyes and listened.

The Raven woke to a misty, dew-heavy morning. Having left their last camp in the middle of the night to find a safer spot, sleep had been in short supply. They had eventually decided to rest with their backs to a low crag overlooking a sweeping hillside above a wooded valley. The mages had laid alarm and trap wards a hundred and fifty yards away on the open ground and, with Denser, Darrick and particularly Aeb needing healing spells, mana stamina was low.

The prevailing mood had not been improved by Thraun and Ren’s lack of success on the pre-dawn hunt, making breakfast a thin stew of root vegetables cooked over the fire they’d only dared light as dawn edged the sky.

More than all that, their plans had been rendered useless by the news Aeb had heard from the Soul Tank.

‘And what did they say, exactly?’ asked Denser.

‘My brothers did not impede Captain Yron or the mage, Erys. Captain Yron escaped the college. Erys was killed.’

‘So where is he? Yron, I mean.’ Hirad took a spoonful of the stew and grimaced.

‘He was chased,’ said Aeb. ‘He escaped but he had help. Two of my brothers were killed. We believe the TaiGethen have him.’

‘Well, that’s excellent,’ said Hirad. ‘Just make sure they don’t leave without us because of what Erienne has to do. Why are you looking like that, Unknown?’

‘There are other issues this raises,’ he replied. ‘Ilkar, can you commune with your Al-Arynaar contact? Make sure we link up.’

‘I can. Just don’t ask me to cast anything else today.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said The Unknown. ‘Aeb, tell me about the college reaction.’

Aeb was standing near the fire. He had been lent a white undershirt by The Unknown. It covered the burned skin on his back but looked incongruous. Protectors only ever wore black.

They are searching for him,’ said Aeb. ‘Mages, soldiers and Protectors all left the college before dawn when the city sweep was complete.’

‘That isn’t what I was asking.’

Aeb’s stare signalled he knew that. ‘There is suspicion. The brothers of Dystran’s personal guard are under investigation. There could be difficulties.’

‘For you?’

‘My name has been mentioned.’

‘Then we have to get to Dystran,’ said Hirad. ‘Stop him recalling Aeb and invoking punishment.’

‘No,’ said the Protector. ‘There is no time.’

‘Aeb, the implications for you . . .’ Denser trailed off.

‘Master Denser, I acted by choice. So did my brothers who looked away. It is a freedom we had almost forgotten. What comes after is understood. Delay will kill more elves.’ He indicated Ilkar, deep in concentration, and Ren, who sat stroking his hair.

There was a moment’s silence before Hirad spoke. ‘That’s a Raven speaking.’

‘Nothing is certain,’ said Aeb.

‘Don’t hide the risk you’re taking,’ said The Unknown. ‘Styliann is long dead and the current Lord of the Mount is clearly capable of any atrocity. But whatever happens I’m going to make it my business to see your sacrifice, if it comes to that, is the last.’

‘It’ll be The Raven’s business,’ said Hirad. ‘Anyway, those researchers could have brought back key information. About releasing the Protectors, I mean.’

‘You can’t really think that’s likely,’ said Denser. ‘I mean, look about you. There’s a war on. Think he’s interested in releasing his most potent warrior force? Think it’s even on his mind that he promised to send the Kaan home?’

‘That’ll have to wait.’ It was Ilkar, propping himself up on his elbows, his expression one of deep concern. ‘She’s gone. My contact. She’s just not there.’

‘Dead?’

Ilkar nodded. ‘Gods falling, Hirad, this is terrifying. Every moment that passes, more die. We’ve got to stop it.’

‘We’ll do it, Ilks,’ said Hirad. ‘I swear. We’ll have to ride to find Rebraal. It’s the only choice we’ve got, isn’t it?’

‘Where are the Al-Arynaar based?’ asked Darrick.

‘South-east of Xetesk,’ said Ilkar. ‘We’ll have to ride across the lines to get to them.’

‘Well, no time like now,’ said Hirad, getting up and tipping the rest of his stew onto the fire. ‘At least I can avoid eating that dung disguised as vegetables.’

Beside The Unknown, Aeb had already strapped his weapons over his back and was donning the riding cloak Darrick had given him.

‘All right to ride?’ asked the big warrior.

‘Yes,’ said Aeb. ‘Fighting will be sore but not impossible.’

The Unknown nodded. ‘Thank you, Aeb. For everything.’

‘It is my calling to protect,’ he said simply. ‘Saving Ilkar and Ren protects you.’

‘Look!’ said Thraun suddenly.

The Unknown turned. The shapechanger, his sharp eyes focussed east, was pointing into the distance. Though the mist still clung to the bottom of the valley, further off it had burned away to a beautiful clear sunlit morning. Far away, where they knew Xetesk to be, they could see the faint lights of hundreds of spells in the sky. A pall of smoke was rising and they could imagine all too easily the suffering beneath.

The assault on the Dark College had begun.

The ease with which the TaiGethen and he escaped Xetesk would have worried the old Yron. They simply scaled the western walls of the city and dropped into open ground, hurrying away under the shroud of night. Once clear of immediate pursuit, Merke had stopped to attend to his crossbow wound, removing the bolt, applying a dried herb pack and tying it down with a tough bandage. It served to ease the pain of the puncture in the muscle at the front of his thigh but didn’t do a great deal to staunch the blood as he trotted along behind the Tai cell.

They were heading south-east as dawn touched the sky, looking to clear the college lines before joining up with the rest of the elven army. Yron had very mixed feelings about it all. While he was glad to have returned the thumb to its rightful owners, it was abundantly clear that neither Merke nor her largely silent companions had any idea who he was. This Auum, whoever he turned out to be, might have a much better idea. And if that was so, he could look forward to nothing but death, which by turn he felt he deserved and was equally sure he didn’t. Funny old world.

Moving across open ground and making for one of the few surviving forest areas five miles south of Xetesk, they were seen by a group of twenty riders galloping across the tufted muddy plain crossed by a lattice of narrow streams. The horsemen had been heading north but turned when they saw the TaiGethen, moving to intercept. Immediately, the Tai unslung bows.

‘Leave it to me,’ said Yron. ‘They could be friends.’

‘They could be Xeteskians,’ said Merke evenly.

‘They don’t have the look,’ said Yron.

‘We will be ready.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

Yron faced the riders, the elves standing behind him in a loose group, bows pointing to the ground. The horsemen came to an orderly halt, one man trotting a little further forward. He took in Yron and the elven trio. Their faces were still covered in deep brown and green paint, having had no chance to clean them under prayer.

‘Hunting?’ said the rider abruptly.

‘Escaping,’ said Yron, knowing immediately they were not Xeteskians. ‘Xetesk is an unpleasant place.’

‘We are in accord there,’ said the rider. He was a black-haired man, youngish, with heavy brows and a hard face. Yron didn’t like him. ‘Tell me your purpose.’

‘It isn’t my way to state my business to total strangers,’ said Yron. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me who I am addressing.’

‘My name is Devun and these are men from the army of the righteous. We are the vanguard of thousands.’

Yron cursed under his breath. Black Wings. Not promising.

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Devun. Now I would ask you to move aside and let us continue. My friends and I have pressing matters away from your battles with the colleges.’

‘Not so fast, one of only four,’ said Devun, and there was threat in his voice and posture. ‘The only innocents fleeing the colleges now are refugees, hungry from seasons of deprivation. None of you have that look.’

He was looking past Yron again at the TaiGethen.

‘And these are neither refugees nor college representatives,’ said Yron, and he walked a little closer to Devun. ‘My friend, you are among those who hate Xetesk with the same passion as you do. Let’s not cause trouble here. These elves are not used to people standing in their way. It makes them nervous.’

‘Well, since we are friends, there is no harm in you telling me both your name and your business.’

Devun had no interest in letting them go. Yron could see his posturing impressing those with whom he rode. But there was no harm in the truth; it might just do the trick. He drew himself tall, ignoring the blood running down his leg and the dull ache of the wound.