Driving his wings hard for a dozen beats, he swept upwards, meaning to look down on his lands from the outer markers where his patrols circled, eyes and minds alert for early signs of enemies. He greeted them with barks and a pulse that warned against complacency.
Reaching his desired height, he turned into a gentle downward-spiralling glide, feeling the rush of the wind over his scales and fully extended wings. His eyes searched below, looking for anything he had missed, any gap that should be closed. He counted just on a hundred Kaan above the mist layer. There would be an equal number below it and twice that many at rest in chouls across the Broodlands.
It looked an impressive defence but it represented the immature and the very old in addition to those of fighting age. The Naik were strong. They knew Kaan birthings were close. He wondered whether they believed an attack worth the probable losses. They had so often proved an impossible brood to gauge. At once utterly, dismissive of rival broods' rights to land in Beshara and surprisingly concessionary and honest in alliance.
The Kaan had not experienced alliance with the Naik themselves but knew their ways from the Veret, a dying brood threatened and now defended by the Naik in a bizarre turn of attitude.
An attack depended on the Naik ability to defend their own homelands while trying to take the Kaan's. That meant new alliances
would have to be made. Sha-Kaan wished he had the time to visit the Veret to get some indication of likely force but they were too far distant.
Satisfied his flight organisation left no unseen access for their enemies, he sailed down faster. A rest in a choul was what he needed now to further ease his ageing muscles, not yet healed by his rest in inter-dimensional space; its coolness, darkness and companionship would be very welcome. But before that, he probed Hirad Cold-heart's mind. Across the uncertainties of inter-dimensional space and into Balaia, he let his consciousness wander.
He could sense the enemies that probed its enclosing membrane, looking for a way in. The Arakhe. Demons, the Balaians called them. An ever-present danger to every creature that inhabited the countless dimensions; and besides enemy broods, the only threat to the Kaan. Balaia was calm. The dimensional magic that had alerted the Arakhe had caused no lasting damage. The tears in space had been small and short-lived. And Hirad Coldheart was sleeping, his mind free though he did not know it.
Sha-Kaan withdrew, satisfied. Yet the density of the Arakhe surrounding Balaian space bothered him. Like they anticipated something. He could feel their minds like thorns in flamegrass. Unpleasant, unwelcome and unnatural.
He would keep close watch on them. Once the birthings were complete and the disruption to the brood psyche settled, he would have more time. Perhaps then he might build alliances of his own, do something about the Arakhe. Something terminal.
Barking his approach, he flew to a choul.
Dystran tried to calm himself before he entered Ranyl's private chamber. He took a moment to readjust his shirt and be sure his hair was smooth against his head. He slowed his breathing and hoped his face wasn't too red from his run. He nodded at the guard on the door who opened it for him. A wave of heat washed out from the dimly lit interior. He walked in.
To the left, the fireplace glowed hot, yellow and orange flames spreading beguiling shadows over walls and drapes. To the right, the light from a hooded lantern revealed Ranyl's bed and the woman
sitting beside it. She had one arm resting on the bed, her hand gripped by Ranyl's. At her side on a low table, a bowl and cloth.
Dystran had expected to hear the rasping of a man near his end but the room was quiet. Yet the atmosphere was thick with expectation, smelled sweet from bowls of infused herbs and petals and was hardly supportive of Ranyl's longevity. He moved quietly towards the bed.
'Thank you, my lady,' he said. 'Your tending has been most welcome these last days.'
After a moment's hesitation, the woman stood. She moved Ranyl's hand from hers, squeezed it briefly and leant in to murmur a few words before kissing him on the forehead. With head bowed, she hurried past Dystran, who did not miss the tracks of tears on her cheeks reflecting the firelight.
As he sat, Dystran had the overwhelming urge to run. Not to face what he knew he must. The sounds of fighting echoed across the dark city. Everything he knew and treasured was under threat. And here, breathing so quiedy he could hardly be heard, the man he needed most was slipping away from him.
He took Ranyl's hand in his and felt the fingers move weakly in his palm.
'Feeling tired, old dog?' asked Dystran quietly, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. So few days had passed since Ranyl had seemed strong, able to walk, sit up, eat. The suddenness of the change was brutal to see.
In the gloom, Ranyl's eyelids flickered and opened. His eyes, so recendy bright and full of determination, were dull and sunken. His mouth moved, breath a sibilant hiss over which his words were barely audible.
'. . . can't bear to see Xetesk attacked. Keep diem from us.'
'The Wesmen won't make it off die walls,' said Dystran gently. 'Rest easy. Hold on. See us victorious.'
'No, young pup. I'm tired.' He managed a brief smile. T will leave it to younger men. I was ... I was really only waiting until you came to say goodbye.'
Ranyl's voice was fading such that Dystran had to lean closer and closer. His words chilled the Lord of the Mount. He gripped the old man's hand, shaking it.
'No, Master Ranyl,' said Dystran. 'I need you to guide me. There is no one else I can trust.'
'You have been such a friend,' said Ranyl. 'And you are a great leader. You need no one.'
'No, Ranyl. Hold on. This pain will pass. You'll soon feel stronger.' ' .
But the words weren't true, he knew that. He could see it in the pallor of Ranyl's complexion, ghostly in the gloom. And he could smell it in the air.
Ranyl coughed weakly. 'Mourn me, but don't miss me.'
Dystran nodded, accepting. He smiled and placed a hand on Ranyl's cold forehead. 'Everything I have achieved is because of you. I will be in your debt for eternity.'
Ranyl chuckled. 'A fitting epitaph,' he said, his eyes brightening just briefly.
And then he was gone.
Dystran walked to the balcony shutters and opened them, admitting the cool' air of night. He saw fires towards the walls and could hear the sounds of battle and of panic beginning to grip the streets. He even fancied he could taste blood in the air.
Mostly, he felt isolation. Only one man could save Xetesk now. Unfortunately, it was him. For a time he let the tears fall, his mind focusing on the tortured screams of Ranyl's familiar as it faded to death after its master.
The prize was so close Tessaya could almost touch it. Men were bred tough in the Heartlands and he felt proud to fight next to them. The Xeteskians were falling back before him and his heart sang victory.
He had led his warriors in a hard drive right along the battlements. His axe ran red and his arms and chest were cut by his enemies. But now the turret was theirs. In front of him a warrior fell, skull crushed by a mace. Tessaya grabbed his collar as he went down, dragging him back. He strode into the space, axe carving through an upward arc left to right across his body. Its blade caught his enemy under the chin. His helmet flew off, his jaw shattered and his head snapped back, taking his body with it and striking those behind him.
Warriors surged forward, the noise intensifying in the enclosed space.
'Hold the far door,' ordered Tessaya, pushing men at it. 'The rest of you, let's take these stairs.'
Handicapped by the direction of the spiral, the Xeteskians were forced back quickly. Tessaya led his warriors down, taking the inside himself. His axe was in his right hand, sweeping in front of him.