Part 39 (1/2)

'Elves,' said Ranyl. 'TaiGethen, Al-Arynaar. They are apparently far more deadly than the myths suggested they were.'

Dystran sighed. 'Yes, but even so, we had a complex enough illusion pattern. What happened to that?'

'It was fine until the mages started to get sick or exhausted,' said Ranyl. 'They couldn't keep it up. By the time they reached the forward campsite, it was unsustainable. Yron was surprised at the tenacity of the temple defence and from then on the elves were closing in. We were lucky anyone got away.'

Dystran drained his gla.s.s and refilled it, his earlier good humour ebbing away. He was still buoyed by the thought of the elven text he craved - the key to their longevity - but the scale of the disaster that had befallen his raiders would leave a bitter taste.

'What about the elders? When can we expect the demands?'

'I've no idea,' said Ranyl. 'But we can replicate the text quickly enough. We'll have the time. I'll word a particularly compelling apology.'

'Do that.' The Lord of the Mount stared at Ranyl, whose eyes were sagging, drawn with fatigue and pain. He'd be taking the loss of life personally. 'I'm sorry. You'll have lost friends.'

Ranyl shrugged. 'It's not so much that. There's something else you should know.'

'Someone drop the writings in the sea, did they?'

'The Raven were there. Fighting with the elves.'

Dystran was about to dismiss this final item of information with a wave of his hand but stopped in mid gesture, cold trickling across his mind. He almost shouted again but checked himself.

'How the h.e.l.l did they get involved? Why?' He was bl.u.s.tering and he knew it, but their presence raised so many questions. 'How did they know what we were trying to do? And why, G.o.ds burning, was I not told they'd left Herendeneth?'

Ranyl waited until he was sure Dystran had stopped asking questions.

'It's impossible for them to have known our mission to Calaius. I feel it was a coincidence, though admittedly a very unfortunate one.'

'I'll say it is.'

'Please, my Lord. Yes, it is unfortunate, but I think we should turn our minds to why they were in the middle of the rainforest at all. They're up to something. As to why you weren't told they'd left Herendeneth, it's because it wasn't a question that was ordered asked of the Protectors.'

The smile reappeared on Dystran's face. 'Well, we can soon put that right, can't we? Denser's still Aeb's Given mage, I take it?'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Well, get to finding out exactly what The Raven were doing there. Find out what they know. Aeb can't refuse to answer a direct question.'

'Should we not rescind the Act of Giving for this Protector?'

'What? And give up our spy in the camp? I think not, Ranyl. He may be powerful muscle but he's only one man.'

'You should know that Denser swore to hunt Yron down,' said Ranyl.

'Did he? Well, that may answer some of our questions about what they know now, if not why they were there in the first place.' Dystran thought a moment. This was an unexpected and potentially serious irritation. 'They mustn't be allowed to get their information, whatever it is, into the hands of anyone friendly towards the elves. And that means Heryst and Lystern. Presumably they're after Yron.

'Come up with a plan. We need safe pa.s.sage for Yron, Erys and the research team from Herendeneth. It may be necessary to clear a path. But that's not all. The Raven are a risk I'm not prepared to take. I want them caught or killed.'

A black cat trotted smoothly into the dining room and leapt onto Ranyl's shoulder, where it turned to face Dystran before morphing into the demon form of the old man's Familiar. Dystran screwed up his face.

'I can't understand why you are determined to keep that thing,' he said. 'How long have you had it now? Must be decades.'

'Friend,' corrected the Familiar, stroking Ranyl's face.

The old man smiled. 'He's right. And, more than ever, I need companions.h.i.+p. Dying is a lonely business.'

Dystran shuddered. 'Not me. Think I'll stick to women. G.o.ds, why do they have to be so ugly?'

He took in the monkey-sized winged and hairless body, the pulsating veined head and the tongue which hung from its fanged mouth, dribbling spit onto Ranyl's collar.

'It can prove useful for the uninitiated victim,' said Ranyl.

'I'd keep it as a cat if I were you,' said the Lord of the Mount.

'But the cat can't talk. And the cat can't fly.'

'They are of little real use though, talking pet apart.'

'Not so, my Lord,' protested Ranyl. 'Indeed, I am encouraging more of our mages to adopt them now we have some limited linkage back with the demon dimension. They are useful as spies, and unless you know how are particularly difficult to kill.'

'Perhaps you should send them after The Raven then, prove to me they are worth the revolting body and endless drool.'

'Perhaps I will.'

It was early evening seven days after Selik's brief and predictable meeting with Blackthorne and Gresse. He had brought his men to a stop half an hour's walk from the garrison at Understone. He wanted them to rest because in the early hours of the morning they had to be at their ruthless best.

They lit a fire in a shaded copse, knowing the light would not be seen in Understone, and ate very well from a deer one of his archers brought down with an astonis.h.i.+ng shot as they rode into their temporary campsite. As he watched them eat and talk, even share the odd s.n.a.t.c.h of song, Selik knew they felt it. This was the march of the righteous. No one could stand before the G.o.ds and stand in their way.

'Rest!' ordered Selik, once the carca.s.s was stripped. 'Sleep if you can; we have justice to serve.'

There was no complaint. They knew he was right. Come the end of the night some of them would be dead but a blow would have been struck. The first of many. While they slept, Selik watched and reflected. He had little need for rest these days, his mind churning endlessly with thoughts of duty and destiny.

When it was time to wake his men, Selik did so feeling like a father waking reluctant children. He served them hot tea himself, feeling closer to them than at any time and starkly responsible for what he was about to begin. For a moment these twenty men with dreams of their own - who wanted life, had wives and children - were more than just p.a.w.ns to him. They were people he should nurture and protect. Just for a moment.

The walk was made in total silence. All the talking had been done. In the blank dark of early morning, deepened further by the looming shapes of the Blackthorne Mountains at their backs, the Black Wings took up their positions. It had been relatively simple. Anders, the garrison commander, posted no guards outside the compound, having long since abandoned the ghost town to its ethereal residents. This mistake allowed the Black Wings to lay their trap and, when they were ready, to spring it.

Across the quiet of the night came the sound of a lone horse, galloping hard. Its rider could be heard urging it on, begging it for more speed. The animal tore up the last twists and turns of the southern path before bursting into view in the dark cloudy early morning, sprinting for the only puddle of light it could see. Understone barracks.

Voices were raised inside. Feet could be heard running on earth and wood and the odd lantern was hung outside the walls, augmenting the firelight within and the braziers ranged along the top of the stockade.

The rider swung into the street and slewed to a halt in front of the gates in a cloud of dust, horse steaming and sweating, froth oozing from under the saddle and dripping from its bit. The rider all but fell from his mount, staggering to the gates and hammering on them, pleading with those watching from above to let him in, fear threatening to overwhelm him.

'Please! Please let me in. Dear G.o.ds, they're right behind me. Please!'