Jossua Elmantoz was carried up through the portal in the floor of the chamber and onto the central dais. Gathana stood nearby and offered her arm, but Jossua waved her away and stood on his own. He looked around at the assembled Monks, not knowing one from another. He fumbled with his sword, resting his palm on its hilt. His own hood, raised like those of all the men and women watching him, hid the strain on his face. But they would respect that. They all knew the Elder, knew why he was the one to be the nearest they had to a leader. He had fought in the Cataclysmic War, and he had seen the Mages.
“Our time has come,” he said.
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. By then, deep inside, most of them had already guessed.
“Magic is back in the land,” Jossua continued. “The Nax have communed with me, and they know where it is, how it is. That is all they told me, so I must assume they know no more.” He paused for a breath, still exhausted from his day beneath ground. “At present it has a carrier, a male. I don’t know his name. He’s somewhere in the foothills of the Widow’s Peaks.
“We have to assume that the Mages have heard of this recurrence. They have their spies, and if their greed is as strong as ever, they will be coming. An advance army, perhaps, borne by hawks or other flying things, but the bulk of their force will surely travel by sea. Nobody knows how far north they fled, so none can tell how soon they will arrive on Noreela. But their threat is secondary. Our time is now. The Mages seek the magic, and without it they are no more than worn-out sorcerers with tricks up their sleeves and false-bottomed boxes. We must find it first. And once found, it has to be destroyed, sent back, purged from the world once more. Humanity was not ready the last time, and since then nothing has improved. It does not belong here.”
Jossua pulled back his hood so that he could stare out at the assembled Monks, frankly and honestly. They met his gaze. “Three centuries ago, I stood on the far northern shores of Noreela and watched the Mages flee, and then I felt magic abandon the land. I felt what that abandonment did to Noreela… like halting food for a pregnant woman. She withers and dies, and the potential within her withers and dies also. I was covered with the gore of the Mages’ Krote warriors, my belly filled with their blood, and even before their burning ships had crested the horizon I swore to myself, never again. I was already a changed man. The fury had done that, the hate, and I was a Red Monk in all but name. Whether it stays away or comes back, they’ll never have it again, I swore. We have had false alarms-there have been signs, hints, and we have killed when we deemed it necessary or appropriate-but this is different. This is real. Whatever their reasons for telling us, the Nax have no need to lie or deceive.”
He raised his hand and, with three swipes, divided the assembled throng into three equal parts. “You, head straight to the Widow’s Peaks and commence your search. You, upriver to San, guard the waterway and wait for the carrier to cross. You, take the boats across Lake Denyah, then head for the Mol’Steria Desert. Wait there, but look both ways: north, for the carrier of magic; south, for the Shantasi. I suspect they have heard as well, or will soon, and they too will be keen to claim their prize.”
He raised his head, drew his sword and set its tip between his shoes. With his palms on the hilt he leaned forward, sighing as he took some of the weight from his feet. “This place has served us well,” he said, “but it’s time for history to move on. If any of you have any questions… your heart is not true.”
At that, the three hundred Monks stood and began to file out, quickly and quietly.
“Elder!” someone shouted. “Elder Elmantoz!”
A Monk staggered into the chamber, collapsed to his knees, fell forward onto his face. Jossua hefted his sword and stepped forward, placing its point into the hood of this Monk, lifting slowly to reveal the man beneath.
Flushed red, filled with the rage, the man was breathing blood. His cloak was muddied and torn, his right hand missing two fingers, his face cut and gaping from chin to temple, his shoulder shattered, a sliver of pink bone protruding through a tear in the cloak. “Elder Elmantoz…” he whispered, the strength leaving him. “Magic,” he said. “I’ve seen magic.”
“Who are you?” Jossua demanded. The Monks that had left filtered back in, informed of this sudden arrival by Jossua’s raised voice. This man was a Monk, yes, but Jossua had never seen him before. That meant that he came from one of the outlying clans. And now here he was, on this very day, talking of magic.
“Lucien Malini,” the Monk said. “I have news of magic! A boy, Rafe Baburn, he carries it somehow. The trail ran cold, but we picked it up again, chased hard… he had a Shantasi with him, a warrior… and a witch, and a thief.”
“Where is he now?”
“Fleeing north from Pavisse. Others are in pursuit, I came to warn you, Elder. I came for reinforcements.”
“When was this?”
Lucien frowned, tried to stand but fell when his broken shoulder gave out. “Two days?” he said. “Three? My horse died. I ran. I was attacked by bandits, spent time fighting them off, had to-”
“Lead your reinforcements back,” Jossua said. “There are a hundred Monks here that will come with you.”
Lucien looked up at the Elder Monk, panting.
“That is,” Jossua said, “unless you’d like to stay for a few days. A nice hot bath, a meal…”
Lucien did not smile, but he stood and drew his sword. The rust of dried blood marked the blade. “Not while this is still hungry,” he said.
“Then it will be sated,” Jossua said. “Rafe Baburn!” he called. “You seek Rafe Baburn!”
The Monks left, Lucien Malini with them, and soon Jossua was alone. He waited there for a while, climbed the tiered seating so that he could see from the high windows, watched the Monks spread slowly out across the landscape as if the Monastery were bleeding. Then he slid his sword into its scabbard, walked from the chamber and started down long flights of stairs to the ground level.
He sat on a stone fountain to regain his breath. As he examined the ancient, broken Book of Ways taken from the library in Noreela City, a new purpose rose in him, invigorating his muscles, grasping his heart and driving his blood thick and fast, giving him back the bloodred rage he had not felt for far too long. While his Monks would seek out and destroy the new magic, Jossua had charged himself with an even greater purpose.
He would not remain here alone. He wondered whom this place would serve in the future, but wondering was not his cause, speculation had no place in his thoughts. With memories of the Cataclysmic War rushing bloodred through his mind, and the song of ages falling from his withered lips, Jossua Elmantoz left the Monastery and headed south for Kang Kang, seeking the womb of the land.
Tim Lebbon
Dusk
Chapter 22
ON THE SECONDday of their journey south, dawn rose red. The Monks were probably still pursuing them. The rain had stopped during the night and now the ground had begun to steam. Their clothes were sodden, their horses exhausted and they needed to rest. Kosar found himself turning more unsettled, not less. Rafe was becoming a stranger to them all, and for the first time Kosar had begun to feel a particular, easily defined emotion toward the boy. Fear.