Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 5

The Raven and their charges rode from Taranspike Castle as the sun picked at the dew lying heavily on the grass of yesterday’s battlefield. The rain of the previous night had blown away west across the central flatlands towards the dark line of the Blackthorne Mountains and a gentle breeze blew warmth through the dawn of the early spring day. Baron Pontois, his soldiers, mercenary warriors and mages were gone, disappeared north through the Grethern Forest from which they had come. All that was left of their encampment was flattened brush and a single, wood-picketed mound where the dead were buried.

At the head of the small horseback party were Hirad, Richmond and Ilkar, while much to his bodyguards’ displeasure, Baron Gresse chose to ride flanked by Talan and The Unknown Warrior. Denser and Sirendor Larn rode behind the second trio, leaving Gresse’s quartet of men bringing up the rear.

For the Baron, the ride was clearly a chance to shake off the shackles of an overprotective family and ride free. For The Unknown and Talan, the habit of gleaning information from whatever source came their way was impossible to break.

‘Are you still allied with Blackthorne?’ asked Talan.

Gresse nodded. ‘We have a reciprocal passage arrangement but I wouldn’t call it an alliance. He travels toll-free through this pass to Korina; I have similar rights through his lands to Gyernath.’

The Unknown frowned. ‘Did he take the lands east of Gyernath? I heard he—’

‘Six months ago. He’s all but annexed Gyernath now, though the City Council has applied significant pressure on him to keep his passage levies low. Successfully so far.’

‘So what happened to Lord Arlen?’ asked The Unknown.

‘He works for Blackthorne.’

‘Ah—’ Light dawned.

‘Gods, no, there was no fighting. No more fighting, should I say. Arlen still nominally controls the lands east of Gyernath, though the truth is he’s supported by Blackthorne’s considerable muscle, furnished with metals from the southern mines and taking a rake off the levy on traffic from the south-east, including Korina.’ Gresse chuckled and reached a hand out to pat The Unknown’s thigh. ‘If I were you, I’d cross Arlen off my list of potential employers. Blackthorne has all the finance around Gyernath now.’

‘Anyone else we can strike off?’ Talan asked.

‘Not me,’ said Gresse. ‘Pontois hasn’t finished yet, I’m sure. He’s either already planning another strike on Taranspike or hoping I’ll over-fortify there and leave myself open to him further west.’

‘Well, if you need us, get in early,’ said The Unknown.

‘Very early,’ said Talan.

‘Heard a rumour you lot might be hanging up your leather,’ said Gresse, careful not to catch either man’s eye.

‘Believe it on seeing it,’ advised Talan, raising his eyebrows.

‘So much for a trade of information,’ grumbled Gresse, a smile touching his eyes.

‘You’ll be the first to know if it happens, how’s that?’ said The Unknown.

‘It’ll have to do.’ Gresse fell silent, shaking his head.

Taranspike Pass was sheer grey and no less than four hundred feet high all the way to Korina, its cool slate home to birds and tenacious vegetation. Either side of the walls of the pass, the land was precipitous, falling to black chasms, deep ravines and harsh, lifeless valleys where water ran beneath rock, its sound like the souls of the lost as it poured under the ground. In the pass itself, run-off from the previous night’s rain puddled on the soft earth, making the way muddy. But with the sun lighting the pass throughout the day, that softness would be driven away and the cracks in a trail which varied between a dozen wagons and just three wagons wide were testament to the heat that sun on rock could generate in the hot season.

The sounds of birds, horses’ hoofs and men’s voices echoed from the walls, bringing with them an atmosphere that would have provoked discomfort in a lone rider but which a company, with the confidence of companionship, could ignore.

Sirendor Larn took another deep breath of the clean air of Taranspike Pass, revelling in the cool rush that filled his lungs and driving from his mind the smells and smoke of the castle and its surrounds. They would encounter no trouble along the pass. Gresse’s men kept the way safe enough and, to Sirendor’s knowledge, it wasn’t particularly dangerous anyway. With Korina less than a day’s ride away, his mood, never down, was lightening by the moment. The only cloud over him was the meeting, and he feared how Hirad would react.

He had kept up a light conversation with Denser for much of the ride, grinning at Ilkar’s scowls when he caught the elf’s eye. Denser seemed all right. It certainly wasn’t the first time Sirendor had fought a man one day and ridden home with him the next. Such was the way of mercenaries. He was clearly a capable mage and, cut from the rules of war, was just another man wondering where the next job would take him. The only difference was that this mage seemed a lot more certain than most. Sirendor took that to be a function of his upbringing in Xetesk and he reminded himself to ask Ilkar more about the Dark College.

Looking across once again at Denser, he smiled. That pipe was clamped between his teeth, gently smouldering as always, and the cat was balancing on the front of his saddle. The mage had been very reticent when pushed for details about the cat, mumbling only that it was an ideal companion for what was, for him, a life largely consisting of solitude. Denser himself was, not for the first time, trying to drill holes with his eyes through The Unknown’s back.

‘He fascinates me, too,’ said Sirendor. ‘Always has.’ Denser glanced around, his reverie broken.

‘What?’

‘The Unknown. I’ve known him ten years arid I still don’t even know where he was born.’

‘Or his name?’ Denser asked.

‘No. Nor his name,’ agreed Sirendor.

‘I thought you lot were the only people he told.’

‘Another rumour, I’m afraid. Not even Tomas knows.’

‘Who’s Tomas?’ asked Denser.

‘Landlord at The Rookery. Well, joint landlord with The Unknown. Tomas has known him more than twenty years. Looked after him at first when he turned up in Korina when he was thirteen.’ Sirendor shook his head. ‘You learn not to ask him certain questions. ’

‘So why do you call him The Unknown Warrior?’

Sirendor laughed. ‘Our most popular question. Tell me what you’ve heard, first, then I’ll tell you the truth.’

‘All I’ve heard is that he didn’t want to be found.’ Denser shrugged. ‘So he refused to tell anyone his name and took on the one he has now.’

‘Common but fatally flawed,’ said Sirendor. ‘I mean, if he was trying to lose himself from someone, calling himself “The Unknown Warrior” and fighting with The Raven is about the worst way he could have chosen, don’t you think?’ Denser nodded. ‘No. When we first formed The Raven ten years ago in The Rookery, it was after we’d met on a contract we’d taken as individuals out by Gyernath. By we I mean him, me, Hirad and Ilkar. I remember us all riding back to Korina and how he said he was owner of an inn and we could have lodgings and food because there was something he wanted to discuss.

‘The Raven name came up because of where we were drinking, then the code, and we all signed the parchment which Tomas keeps mounted in the back room. When it came to The Unknown’s turn, he wouldn’t sign, saying his name wasn’t important, and it was only then that the rest of us realised that through the week of fighting, he’d not once told us who he was.’

‘Why The Raven? Rooks live in rookeries.’

‘Same family of birds, better name. Can you really imagine us being called “The Rook”?’

Denser chuckled, the sound dying on the rock in front of him where the pass opened out a little. Sirendor continued.

‘Anyway, I remember what Hirad and Ilkar said like it was yesterday. The loudmouth said, “We don’t want any mystery man in the team, so either sign up or bugger off.” ’ Sirendor shook his head at the memory. So typical, so very, very Hirad. ‘And Ilkar said, “Yeah, what are you, some kind of mystical unknown warrior or something?” That was the name that went on the parchment, under the code. And it stuck.’ Sirendor shrugged. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

Denser chuckled. ‘Well, well, well. Of such things are legends made.’

‘We sincerely hope so,’ said Sirendor.

‘But doesn’t it fascinate you to know what his name really is and why he won’t tell you?’ asked Denser, his tone serious again. ‘I can’t imagine why any man should claim his name wasn’t important.’

Sirendor turned in his saddle and put a finger to his lips. He lowered his voice.

‘Yes it did, and I suppose still does in moments when my mind wanders. And don’t think we haven’t asked him, got him drunk and tried to trick his name from him, refused to speak to his face, anything. But he won’t let on, and if you press him, he gets angry. You learn to keep your fascination to yourself. He is our friend. If he wishes to be private about something, even his name, we respect it. He is Raven.’

‘But he’s hiding something from you,’ pushed Denser. ‘He’s not telling you—’

‘Enough,’ said Sirendor. ‘It is his decision. Let it rest.’ But the look in Denser’s eyes suggested he might not.

A flight of large grey-winged white gulls swept along the pass towards them, angling up away into the sunlight, their calls clattering into the clefts above. More birds, smaller, quicker, darker, rose in protest, their harsh calls scattering the flight, which re-formed high above to continue its journey west. With a loud fluttering of wings, the birds of prey returned to the cliffs, the nests and chicks protected from the marauding carrion gulls.

Gresse followed the exchange, straining his neck upwards before turning to The Unknown. ‘Tell me, did Blackthorne show any concern about the Wesmen rumours?’

‘I think you have an overblown view of our importance,’ replied The Unknown. ‘Mercenaries don’t get to talk to Baron Blackthorne. ’

Gresse turned in his saddle and fixed The Unknown Warrior with his bright eyes.

‘Unknown, I am the oldest Baron and I have overblown views about very few things. The Raven’s reputation and importance are not among them. I also speak to Blackthorne on occasion and know he enjoys your company.’

‘So talk to him again.’

‘He is two hundred and fifty miles south-west of here, so I am asking you,’ said Gresse testily. ‘You aren’t telling me everything.’

The Unknown glanced across at Talan, who shrugged his shoulders. The party were moving at an easy trot and Denser was some way behind them, still chatting to Sirendor.

‘Six months ago, when you say Arlen sold out to Blackthorne, we were in Eastern Balaia, assessing the Wesmen threat,’ said The Unknown. Gresse punched the pommel of his saddle.

‘I knew there was more. Sly bastard.’

‘It just made good sense,’ said Talan. ‘Let’s face it, if the Wesmen invade through Understone Pass and head south rather than north, Blackthorne will catch it rather than the Colleges, at least to begin with. The same goes for an invasion across the Bay of Gyernath, which would leave them only five days from the City itself and a couple of hours from Blackthorne Castle.’

‘And what did you see?’

Ahead of them, Hirad called a halt and the party reined in and dismounted for rest and food. It was shortly past midday and the pass was heating up pleasantly. They had stopped in a natural bowl where the rock was scooped out on either side, focusing the strength of the sun.

‘Nothing to back up anything you’ve heard.’ Talan shrugged, dusted off a rock with a gauntleted hand and sat down. To his left, Gresse’s bodyguards set about lighting a fire, gathering armfuls of the thick dry scrub that clung to the base of the pass the whole of its length. ‘We went through the pass as guard to a Blackthorne wine convoy heading for Leionu. We went south after the pass and tracked the Blackthornes for four days, eventually crossing the Bay of Gyernath. We saw no burning villages, no war parties, nothing to suggest the Wesmen were even raiding.

‘The Wesmen, if they are massing, are doing so in their Heartlands in the south-west peninsula. Sorry to disappoint you.’

‘But that was six months ago.’ Gresse sat beside him, choosing the softer grass and heather over a slab of stone.

‘Granted, but Baron Blackthorne is not, to my knowledge, concerned about a Wesmen invasion,’ said The Unknown. He sifted briefly through his pack and pulled out a small leather bag, stoppered at its neck. ‘Hey, Sirendor, salt.’ He tossed the bag at the warrior, who jumped to catch it one-handed. ‘And use it this time. It makes your soup just about drinkable.’ Hirad laughed. Sirendor swore.

‘Then he should be concerned.’ Gresse was thoughtful for a while. ‘And what about the pass itself?’

‘Well guarded. Tessaya is not a fool. He gets good revenue from the pass and isn’t about to give it up to the KTA or a rival tribe.’ The Unknown scratched his nose.

‘The barracks?’

‘Boarded and empty.’ The Unknown shook his head slightly. ‘He had a significant guardpost at either end of the pass but was not shoring up for siege.’

‘Thank you,’ said Gresse. ‘Both of you. Sorry to press.’

Talan shrugged. ‘No problem. You have other sources, I take it?’

‘More recent and no less reliable. The pass is reportedly closed to the east, full of Wesmen, and war parties are emerging from the south-west. If it’s true, we’re in trouble. We have no organised defence and neither Blackthorne nor the Colleges are strong enough. Just keep your eyes and ears open is all I ask.’ Gresse sighed. ‘I haven’t a hope in hell of persuading the Barons to ally at this meeting, not without Blackthorne. I only hope it’s not all too late.’

Talan raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s that serious, you think? What about the Wytch Lords rumours?’

Gresse snorted. ‘Yes, it is that serious. We could all be in a fight for our country very soon. As for the Wytch Lords, if by some appalling miracle they are returned, we can kiss Balaia goodbye.’

The fire crackled into life, flames casting pale shadow on the sunlit walls of the pass. The men lapsed into silence, each preferring his own thoughts on the exchange as he stared into the hypnotic flickering. It was a good time for a little quiet, and Sirendor’s meat broth, when it arrived, tasted fine.

The Raven rode through Korina’s East Gate as the sun began to be lost behind some of the City’s few tall buildings. Where some were stopped and questioned, if not searched, The Raven were, as always, simply waved through to the crowded cobbled streets of Korina’s late afternoon trading.

‘Now that’s an advantage of being us,’ remarked Sirendor. ‘And there aren’t as many as you’d think.’ Denser said nothing.

Shortly after their entry into the City, Gresse and his men made their goodbyes and headed south towards the offices of the Korina Trade Alliance and the tightly guarded apartments the Barons found it necessary to maintain.

Korina was the Capital City of Eastern Balaia, boasting a stable population of somewhere around two hundred and fifty thousand, which swelled to as many as three hundred thousand at festival and principal trading times. Most of the latter were dictated by the arrival of merchant fleets from the lands to the east and south of the Northern Continent. Korina sat at the head of the River Kour estuary and had developed safe deep-water ports that attracted southern traders away from the shorter but less profitable journey to Gyernath.

The City was characterised by its sturdy sprawling low buildings, a legacy of the high winds and hurricanes that periodically swept along the estuary as the season changed from winter to the warmer weather of spring. In three places, connected by streets packed with businesses and shops, inns and eating houses, brothels and gambling dens, markets bustled with life every day of the week.

Beyond the triangle, and closer to the port, heavy industry boomed, clanged, fired, sawed and moulded, producing goods for home and across the seas. And in every gap between the places of entertainment, trade, officialdom and work, people lived. Some in squalor, some in luxury undreamed of by those who saw nothing but the dirt on their hands, and most in a state of perpetual shift on a line between the two.

Slowing their horses to trotting pace, The Raven moved towards the western market on the north side of which sat The Rookery. The streets were full of people, carts and animals; and mixed with them, the fresh, foul and fetid smells blew with the noise of the City on a steady inshore breeze. Stalls, wagons, hand baskets and shoulder-slung trays offered everything from fine cloth shipped in from the distant elven southern lands; through pottery, iron and steel wares forged and cast in the foundries and kilns of Korina and Jaden; to meats, vegetables and pastries prepared in kitchens scattered all over the City, some clean, many squalid and filthy. The barrage of trade was held in the single language of hard currency, and everywhere, silver and bronze glinted in the reddening sunlight as it changed hands.

Mercifully, much of the traffic was moving in the opposite direction to their travel as the trading day waned. But the cobbled market square itself was packed with stalls between which The Raven had to pick. Speech was pointless and The Unknown led them in single file towards The Rookery and the quiet of the inn’s back room that was their sanctuary after battle.

Tomas’s son, Rhob, a youth forever in awe of the mercenaries, took their horses to the stables and the saddle-stiff companions went inside.

‘Hello, boy!’ Tomas’s shout greeted The Unknown from behind the bar. It was what the innkeeper always called him, saying that ‘Unknown’ made him sound like a stranger. The Rookery was perhaps a quarter full, reflecting the time of day. It was a large inn, thirty tables spread widely around a low-roofed, oak-pillared room. The bar was directly opposite the door and ran in a quarter-circle from right to left, finishing by doors to kitchens, back room and the upstairs. On the right was The Rookery’s open fire. Books ranged over the walls on three sides and reds and greys complemented the lanterns to give a warming atmosphere.

‘Hello, Tomas.’ There was a weariness in The Unknown’s tone.

‘Go straight through,’ said Tomas, a tall, balding man in his late forties. ‘I’ll bring in some wine, ale and coffee. Maris is just firing the ovens. I—’ He frowned, stopped speaking, his eyes flicking over The Raven, pausing briefly on Denser, then moving on. The Unknown nodded, walked to the bar and laid a hand on Tomas’s arm.

‘There’ll be a party in here tonight. We have much to celebrate, much to remember and Ras to mourn.’

Nothing more was said and The Raven filed past Tomas into the back room, each man nodding or smiling his greeting.

Three things characterised the back room: the Raven symbol and crossed short swords above the fireplace; its long banqueting table set with seven places which stood by large double doors in the far wall; and its exquisitely sewn soft chairs and sofas. It was into these that The Raven sank, their grateful sighs giving way to silence.

Denser hesitated. There were ten seats in all. Eventually he moved to a plainer, red-upholstered chair nearest the unlit fire.

‘Not there.’ Talan’s voice stopped him in his tracks. ‘Ras sat there. Sit on Tomas’s sofa if you must. I expect he won’t mind.’

Denser sat.

‘Now then,’ said The Unknown, turning to the Dark Mage. ‘First things first. How long before we are likely to see payment?’

‘Well, as I explained to Ilkar, the amulet is primarily a research tool and we won’t be looking to sell it for some months. However, we will set a minimum price and I can advance you five per cent of that figure, say two hundred thousand truesilver?’

The Unknown glanced quickly around The Raven. There were no dissenters.

‘Good enough. Our money is lodged in the Central Reserve. Your payment needs to be made there within a week.’

Denser stood. ‘It’ll be there tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a bath.’ He made to leave; The Unknown stopped him.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘I hadn’t given it any thought.’

‘Get Tomas to make up a room. There’ll be no charge.’

‘That’s very good of you. Thank you.’ Denser seemed a little confused, though he smiled.

‘And if you’re up to it, come to the party. You financed it, after all. Main bar, dusk.’ Denser nodded. ‘Just one more thing. Ilkar? A ForeTell, please.’

Ilkar nodded, the ghost of good humour touching his face as he stood up and walked over to Denser.

‘What do you need?’ asked Denser.

‘Not much,’ said Ilkar. ‘It’s a very general spell, single trait only. I’m merely looking for honesty. When I touch you, just answer the question I ask yes or no.’

Ilkar closed his eyes and uttered a short incantation. His right hand made a pass in front of his eyes, mouth and heart before he placed it on Denser’s shoulder.

‘Will two hundred thousand truesilver be deposited in The Raven account at the Central Reserve within a week from today?’

‘Yes.’

Ilkar opened his eyes and then the door. ‘See you later.’ Denser left. Ilkar pushed the door shut and glared at The Unknown Warrior. ‘Anything else you want us to give him? The freedom to use Julatsan blood to replenish his mana, perhaps?’

The Unknown said nothing.

‘I don’t trust him,’ said Hirad.

‘Why do you suppose he’s staying here?’ asked The Unknown.

‘No, it’s not the money,’ said Hirad. ‘The ForeTell says he’ll pay that. There’s much more. Like why he agreed to pay us so much so readily. Let’s face it, we’d have done the job for two thousand each.’

‘Why do you suppose he’s staying here?’ repeated The Unknown. ‘If he’s involved us in anything, I want to know where he is. That, Ilkar, is why I want him downstairs tonight.’

‘You expecting trouble?’ asked Talan.

‘No.’ The Unknown leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. ‘But even so, short swords should be worn, and not just out of respect for Ras.’

‘It’s only now, isn’t it?’ Ilkar had pulled the cork from a bottle of wine and poured himself a goblet.

‘What is?’ Sirendor motioned Ilkar to do the same for him. The mage passed over his goblet and filled another.

‘Now you’ve stopped to think, now the glint of truesilver has faded, you’re all getting twitchy, aren’t you?’ He sat down in his chair. ‘Xetesk is dangerous. Nothing is ever what it seems. There’s always a bigger story and I for one don’t believe anything he said about that amulet.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’

‘Oh, and you’d have listened, would you, Hirad?’ snapped Ilkar. ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand for a day’s ride versus me. Don’t shovel it my way.’

‘I don’t see the problem,’ said Richmond. ‘We’re here, we’re safe, the money will be paid. We’ve bought ourselves more choice.’

‘If we live to enjoy it,’ muttered Ilkar.

‘You’re overreacting,’ said Sirendor.

‘You don’t know them.’ Ilkar spoke slowly. ‘I do. If he’s involved us in something, we’re expendable. Xetesk doesn’t have any code and they don’t follow any rules.’ He paused. ‘Look, all I’m saying is, be careful around Denser. We may well have got away with this one but we’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘We don’t have to work for Xetesk again,’ said Hirad evenly.

‘Too right we don’t,’ replied Ilkar.

‘We don’t have to work for anyone again.’ Silence followed Talan’s words. Hirad rose stiffly and walked to the table which carried the drinks. He poured himself wine and brought the bottle, another and more cups back to the fireplace. Those without helped themselves.

‘We didn’t have to work for anyone before but I know what Talan means,’ said The Unknown. ‘That two hundred and fifty thousand means we can do everything we talked of when we started and everything we never dared dream we could do. Just think of the possibilities.’

‘I think you’d better start by telling me about last night and what you said.’ Hirad drained his cup and refilled it.

‘We tried to wake you. We had no desire to exclude you,’ said Sirendor. ‘We went out of the castle to join Richmond. I don’t know about the others but looking down at Ras’s grave I had my first fear that one day it could be me. Or Ilkar—’ He gestured around The Raven, finally nodding at Hirad. ‘Or you. I didn’t want that. I want a future while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.’

‘The decision’s made, is it?’ Hirad’s voice was gruff.

Sirendor breathed deeply. ‘While we were talking, it became obvious that we all felt the same. Gods, Hirad, even you’ve talked about packing it in during the last two years. We all want to live. Talan wants to travel, Ilkar’s under pressure to go back to Julatsa. I . . . well, you know what I want.’

‘Husband and father, eh?’ Hirad smiled despite the thudding of his heart and the knot in his throat.

‘All I have to do is stop fighting and the Mayor won’t stop us marrying. You know how it is.’ Sirendor shrugged.

‘Yeah. Sirendor Larn tamed by the Mayor’s daughter. It had to happen some time, I suppose.’ Hirad wiped at the corner of his left eye. The atmosphere in the room was intense, focused on him. ‘You know I won’t stand in your way.’

‘I know,’ said Sirendor, but the look they shared spoke everything.

‘You can see the sense in it,’ said The Unknown. Hirad stared at him blankly. ‘Gods, Hirad, I’ve been half-owner of this inn for a dozen years and if I’ve served behind the bar a dozen times I’m lucky.’

‘And what about you?’ The barbarian turned his attention to Richmond.

‘Before yesterday I wasn’t sure,’ said the blond warrior. ‘But I’m tired, Hirad. Even standing waiting for something to happen is tiring. I—’ He stopped and rubbed his brow with three fingers. ‘Yesterday, I made a mistake I’ll have to carry to my grave. And right now, I’m not sure I trust myself to fight in line and I’d be surprised if you did. Any of you.’

Another silence. Long. Hirad stared around The Raven but no one said any more.

‘It’s unbelievable,’ said Hirad. ‘Ten years. Ten years and yet you’ve made the biggest decision of our lives . . . my life, while I was sleeping.’ He was too angry even to shout and his voice held calm. But at the same time he knew it wasn’t anger. It was a deep and bitter disappointment. The inevitable result of the formation of The Raven. The split. The funny thing was that, at the outset, Hirad never thought he’d survive this long. The future had been meaningless. Until now. Now it crashed over his head and he found he was frightened of it. Very frightened.

‘Sorry, Hirad.’

‘I just wanted someone to ask my opinion, Sirendor.’

‘I know. But the decision wasn’t taken last night, just confirmed.’

‘You didn’t ask me.’ Hirad got up and moved to the door. He needed a few drinks and to laugh. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘You retired folk fund the party and I’ll try to forgive you.’

Styliann’s eyes blazed and his face reddened. In the holding chamber beneath his tower, the three mages cowered where they sat, too exhausted to stand in respect of their Lord.

‘Tell me again.’ Styliann spoke low and quiet, the power of his voice filling the small chamber.

‘We were only sure three hours ago and even then we had to make our final fail-safe check. We didn’t want to cause concern until we had absolute proof,’ said one, an old mage whose life had been devoted to his single task.

‘Concern?’ echoed Styliann, voice cracking ever so slightly. ‘The greatest evil in Balaia’s history has gone missing. Causing me concern is the least of your worries, believe me.’

The three mages exchanged glances.

‘Not just missing, my Lord. Not only are they not in the cage, we don’t believe they reside in interdimensional space either.’ The old mage swallowed. ‘We believe that their essence and souls have returned to Balaia.’

The silence which followed dragged at the ears. Styliann’s breath hissed between his teeth. He took in the small chamber, its sketches and maps of dimensional space and spell result equation covering every wall. Notebooks were scattered on the single pitted wooden desk. The chairs, arranged in a loose crescent, each contained a terrified mage looking up at him as he stood near the door, Nyer at one shoulder, Laryon at the other. He wouldn’t look left or right; he didn’t have to. The impact of what they had just heard sent ripples through the mana trails.

‘How long have they been gone?’ he asked. It was the question they were dreading.

‘We can’t – can’t be sure,’ managed the old mage.

Styliann pinned him with his eyes. ‘I beg your pardon?’ They looked from one to another. Eventually, a younger woman spoke.

‘It has always been the way of the Watches, my Lord,’ she said. ‘The spells are cast and the calculations made every three months when certain alignments offer us more accuracy.’

Styliann didn’t take his gaze from the old man. ‘Are you telling me that the Wytch Lords could have been in Balaia up to three months ago?’

‘They were in the cage last casting,’ said the woman. ‘They aren’t there now.’

‘Yes, or no.’ Styliann almost believed he could hear their hearts pounding, then realised it was his own sounding in his ears and throat.

‘Yes.’ The old man looked away, tears in his eyes. Styliann nodded.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Clear the room, your work is finished.’ He turned to Nyer. ‘We’ve no choice. Contact the Colleges but say nothing of events here or at Taranspike Castle. We must have a meeting at Triverne Lake. Now.’

‘I wouldn’t have believed it unless I’d smelled it with my own nose,’ said Sirendor. He was standing close to Hirad at the bar of The Rookery, appraising the barbarian’s clothes – leather trousers, a close-fitting dark shirt that showed off his upper body to good advantage, and a studded belt on which hung his scabbarded short sword. Ilkar was with them, dressed in a black-edged yellow shirt and leather trousers, and behind the bar stood The Unknown in a plain white shirt and similar leggings to his friends.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Hirad.

‘Well, my dear friend, in the hours that we have been apart, not only have you shed that revolting sweaty leather stuff you wear for talking to dragons, but you have obviously had a scented bath. This is truly a momentous occasion.’ Sirendor leaped on to the nearest table, shouting, ‘Ladies, gentlemen, Talan. The foul-smelling barbarian has had a bath!’ There was laughter and the odd cheer. Hirad even saw Denser smile before the mage, dressed in voluminous black shirt and trousers, returned to stroking his cat and gazing into the fire as he sat in an armchair close to the flames.