‘Are they really that bad?’ asked Richmond.
‘Yes. Gods, yes,’ replied Ilkar. ‘You have to understand where they came from. They used to be part of the original single College but were banished across the Blackthornes for their beliefs. They spent centuries brewing their hate and developing ways of making themselves immortal. When they succeeded, they came back to take what they thought was theirs. That time, we won. This time, we won’t, not without Dawnthief.’ He paused, seeing they weren’t quite with him. ‘Look, the Wytch Lords won’t want to conquer, they want to destroy, to wipe out everyone to the east of the mountains. It was the promise they made when they were pushed into the mana prison. In my view, we have to go with Denser . . . Put it this way, I’m going whether The Raven do or not, but I want the rest of you to do the same. We’ll probably all die, but at least we’ll have tried.’
‘Martyrdom for my country is not something I’ve ever considered as an option,’ said Talan.
‘Still, it’ll certainly be a new departure for The Raven,’ said Richmond. ‘Not just doing it for the money, I mean.’
‘Retirement brings a new outlook to things.’ Ilkar shrugged, but his smile was forced.
‘It certainly did for Sirendor.’ Hirad’s voice was barely above a whisper.
‘Yes, it did. And we must never forget the full circumstances of our accepting this job. Assuming, of course, we all accept?’ The Unknown looked around.
‘I need it written into the contract that I go to see Dawnthief properly used against the Wytch Lords only. I’m working for Balaia, not Xetesk,’ said Ilkar, his tone uncompromising.
‘And I want an undertaking on Denser’s part that we will attack the Witch Hunters the first chance we get.’ Hirad was looking over at Sirendor.
‘Got all that, Talan?’ asked The Unknown when no one ventured further thoughts. Talan nodded. ‘Denser needs to sign the contract at first light, so you’d better draw it up now. Anything else from anyone?’
‘Just one thing,’ said Richmond. ‘Shouldn’t we be guarding Denser? Or the amulet he’s holding, to be more accurate.’
‘Don’t worry. His cat’ll see him safe,’ said Ilkar.
Hirad looked askance at the elf, imagining the animal holding off several large armed men. ‘Good with a sword, is it?’
Ilkar chuckled in spite of the mood. ‘It’s a Familiar, Hirad. It retains a part of his consciousness, for want of a better word, and I dare say it can take on more than one form.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Hirad, not seeing.
‘I’ll explain another time. Just trust me for now, all right?’
‘Right, gentlemen,’ said The Unknown, standing. ‘Back here in an hour for the Vigil. Until that time, I suggest we all leave Hirad to air his grief in private.’
Hirad smiled his thanks, tears already forming. When they were all gone, he allowed himself to weep.
Chapter 7
Selyn’s escape from Terenetsa had an element of fortune to it, although she liked to think she was never in any real danger. She was certainly irritated that the Shaman had managed to see her so easily despite the spell she had used to conceal herself, and had ducked low as the arrows flew.
With the Wesmen advancing behind a hail of shafts, she had gathered together her concentration and cast another CloakedWalk before diving through an unshuttered opening at the side of the hut in which she had been hiding and watching.
Landing on hard-baked mud, she had scattered chickens as she rolled, the fowl looking on in blank confusion, sensing something but seeing nothing. She had come fluidly to her feet and sprinted away into the forest, changing direction at the tree line and hearing the sounds of pursuit die away as she slipped unseen further and further into the forest.
Several hours later, as night fell, she had held communion with Styliann before sleeping deeply under a stand of low bushes she had hollowed out to accommodate her slender frame.
Selyn awoke the next morning with the sun dappling her face. The forest was quiet but for the sounds of nature, and the still air warmed quickly. She set and lit a fire before recovering the rabbit from the trap she’d laid the night before, then skinned it effortlessly and spitted it for breakfast. She was on the move in less than an hour.
The lands to the north-west, her direction of travel, were crawling with Wesmen raiding parties as the tribes sought local populations to subjugate and new areas for staging posts. As she moved quietly past encampment after encampment and saw the Wesmen building calmly and carefully, she wondered at their apparent lack of urgency. It was as if they were waiting for something. She feared finding out what.
As the first afternoon of her journey to the Torn Wastes began to pale towards dusk, she felt a sudden and involuntary spasm of fear. What she found in Parve would almost certainly herald chaos throughout Balaia and a war the scale of which hadn’t been seen for over three hundred years - the last time the Wesmen invaded. She only hoped she could relay enough information back to Styliann before she was caught and killed. Because, if Styliann was right, she wouldn’t be leaving the City of the Wytch Lords.
Her sense of fear was quickly quashed, replaced by one of loss, and for a time she struggled with her motivation. She knew it was best if she forgot all thoughts of a return to Xetesk. They might cloud her judgement, make her too careful. She substituted them with the cold desire to prove herself beyond all question Xetesk’s greatest mage-spy. She had never doubted. Others had, simply because she was a woman in a male-dominated order.
And more than having her name exulted in her own ranks, she had the chance to achieve the ultimate sacrifice for the greater glory of Xetesk. She might even change the course of the war that was surely coming.
Desire rekindled, she focused very deliberately to build her inner strength. Supple but strong leather boots covered her feet and calves, their dark matt-brown colouring blending with the forest shades. Each boot carried a sheathed dagger. Mottled green trousers and jacket completed the camouflage picture.
On her hands, black gloves, skin tight, with fine grips sewn into palms and fingertips. Inside the sleeves of her jacket and under those of her brown woollen shirt, a spring mechanism attached to either wrist. Locked into each was a barbed bolt fatal in close combat but with no real range. Three more daggers hung from her waist belt in addition to a pick set, and on her back, beneath her jacket, hung a scabbarded short sword.
Her head and neck were wrapped in a long cloth scarf which, when tied for covert action, left open only the skin surrounding her large brown eyes. She kept her black hair cropped close to her head, her nails short but sharp and her feet in perfect condition. Her body, slim and athletic, long-legged and small-breasted, was built for agility and speed, attributes she used to the full.
She was fast and deadly because being clever enough to breach places undetected was only half the job. Being able to get out when the mana ran dry was the reason she survived. Styliann had quipped that she’d make a fine assassin, but personally she found the thought of killing to order abhorrent. Mind you, more than once her path had been sprinkled with the corpses of those who’d tried to stop her.
Selyn smiled. Maybe she would see Xetesk again after all. With care and belief, anything was possible. She was under pressure to reach Parve quickly. Knowing only one spell that would satisfy that pressure, she used it, moving off northwest through thinning trees towards increasingly mountainous and barren terrain that gave ample places to hide, but few in which to find any comfort. The western lands were characterised by sheer valleys and studded with ranges of mountains over which sudden and violent weather broke almost without warning. But for now, with the sun warming the earth, cold rock seemed a world away.