‘Oh, shit,’ muttered Ilkar.
‘Yes.’ Isman smiled. ‘Please don’t struggle. It only makes things more difficult. For you, that is.’
Ilkar allowed himself to be hauled to the wall chains, his right arm thumping with a strength that made him nauseous. Bracing himself for the pain, he fought to keep in mind that Denser had not let out a mana scream. And while that was true, it meant the Familiar was still alive. And while that was true, help was on its way.
But as the first shovel blow caught him just below his ribs, making him gasp as the air was forced from his lungs, he also knew that the cat wouldn’t last for ever without its master. If no help arrived by sun-up, none was coming.
‘So how long has Travers had her?’ Hirad remained dubious. The story he had just heard didn’t make much sense. He cupped his mug of steaming coffee in his hands and was glad of it. At least their meeting would not be a complete waste.
‘Just a few days,’ said Alun, the man who had been doing most of the talking. He was, he said, the husband of the Dordovan mage, Erienne, whom Travers had kidnapped. He looked a quiet man, and though he carried a long sword, Hirad doubted whether he really knew how to use it. He didn’t have the face of a swordsman.
‘What for?’
‘What does he ever take mages for? For questioning,’ Alun said, his voice muted, desperate.
‘Why don’t the Colleges do something about him?’ asked Talan.
‘Because enough senior mages are in grudging agreement that his work may have some use in taming dark magic,’ said the big man, Thraun.
‘But we’re talking about kidnap here,’ said Hirad. ‘Surely . . .’
‘It’s not that simple,’ said Alun. ‘Erienne is a maverick. She doesn’t live by College rules and they are pig-headed enough to let her suffer for it. Maybe even die.’ His voice was bitter, angry. ‘Look, it isn’t just her. They took our boys.’
Hirad caught Alun’s eyes and felt a pang of sorrow for the man. It was the same expression he’d seen in Sana: knowing he’d lost something but not really believing it was gone.
‘Boys?’ prompted Talan.
‘Twin sons. Four years old,’ answered Jandyr, the Julatsan bowman. He was an elf and claimed a nodding acquaintance with Ilkar. For his part, Ilkar had never spoken of him.
‘And you three are hired, I take it,’ said Talan.
‘You think we’d do this sort of thing for love?’
‘We are,’ snapped Hirad at the gruff-voiced man, Will. He was small, maybe five and a half feet, but he was wiry and well muscled, and his eyes were clever. He carried two short swords in a crossed back-mounted scabbard, wore dark-stained leather and had a small growth of stubble covering the jaw and neck of his thin face. Hirad didn’t like him.
‘I don’t have to justify myself to you,’ said Will. ‘We’re all hired men here. All but Alun. You choose to fight battles for the Barons; we recover things. And people.’ He shrugged. Quiet fell. The stove hissed and smoked slightly, aside from which, nothing but a dim glow from the coals gave notice that they were sitting round a fire.
Hirad glanced at the other man, Thraun. He was huge, a man who could have given even The Unknown cause for thought. His long sword was at his side and he absently scratched at his brown-flecked blond beard as he stared into the night.
A rustling behind him caught Hirad’s attention and he looked over his shoulder to see the cat entering the camp site. All was clearly far from well. It stumbled and swayed as if intoxicated as it moved towards the barbarian; and in the dim light from the coals, he could see its coat, as dull now as its eyes, ragged and unkempt.
‘Gods, Hirad, look at it,’ said Richmond.
Hirad nodded, scooped the stricken animal up and placed it inside his jerkin, against his skin, wincing as the cold of the cat touched the warmth of his flesh.
‘Yours, is it?’ asked Will.
‘It belongs to Denser. It’s dying.’
‘Obviously,’ said Will.
Hirad shot him a sharp glance. ‘It can’t be allowed to happen. We need Denser right now.’ He glanced over to Richmond and Talan. ‘It’s time we sorted ourselves out.’
‘So what was your plan?’ asked Richmond of the others.
‘Stealth,’ said Jandyr. ‘We’ve identified a way in through the back and were waiting for dead of night to go in when your friends were taken past. We’d just decided to wait further when you came along.’
‘Hmm.’ Hirad sucked his lip. ‘I’m not sure that’ll work now. They’re going to be expecting some form of attack from us.’
‘But not from seven people,’ said Thraun. ‘Only three.’
‘Interesting,’ murmured Talan. Then, louder, ‘Your wife, what’s her schooling?’
‘Dordovan, I told you . . .’ began Alun.
‘No, no, sorry. I mean is she principally offensive or defensive?’
Alun looked blank for a moment. ‘Well, neither, really. She’s a research mage - a Lore Scribe. Or she will be.’
‘But does she cast?’ pushed Talan.
‘Never to hurt others.’ Alun was definite.
‘Excellent,’ said Talan. ‘Even if Travers is controlling her, it makes a Rage all that much more likely to succeed.’
‘A what?’ Will frowned.
Hirad smiled. ‘Perhaps we could interest you in The Raven’s chaos tactic.’
They had broken three ribs and one, at the base of his rib cage, had cracked back to threaten his lungs. The blows had become more and more brutal, moving from his stomach to his chest and, finally, to his legs.
Then they had left him, hanging and bleeding from a dozen places outside and, when he went within, two inside. One of these, on his liver, felt serious. He ached. His battered legs shot pain into his back if he tried to stand; and his arm and broken ribs flared if he hung from his wrists.
Through the ill-fitting drapes in the hall, Ilkar thought he could see the first hint of dawn. His heart sank and he wondered if there was any point in keeping himself going. It was taking the last of his strength. Better to shut off and let himself die.
He tried to hate Denser then. Hate him for trapping The Raven into their futile and doomed action. Hate him for causing the deaths of his friends. Hate him for being Xeteskian and sleeping on, unaware of the agony Ilkar was enduring.
But he found he couldn’t. Denser, for all his arrogance, had been telling the truth - the evidence was overwhelming. The discovery of the Dawnthief parchment, the fight with the Destranas, Gresse’s word about the Wesman build-up. It all fitted with a return of the Wytch Lords and a Xeteskian drive to recover the only spell capable of beating them.
He shuddered. At least in dying he’d be out of the battle for Balaia. A battle where there probably wouldn’t be any winners. He breathed in hard and coughed up blood, gasping in pain as his lung pushed against broken bone. He straightened his legs slowly, relieving pressure on his numb arms, wincing as the bruising in his hips pulsed agony right across his back.
They’d been away a few minutes now. Ilkar frowned. Would they bother to ask him any more questions? Gods, he hoped so. At least that would mean they’d put him back in the chair. Where had they gone? Travers had said he’d be back. Ilkar wondered if they were talking to Denser but presumed he would still be drugged asleep. He blew out his lips. More likely they were having breakfast or something.
The double doors at the end of the room opened and Travers walked in, flanked by two men. Bottle in one hand, glass in the other, the Captain had a pronounced stagger now.
‘Fourth bottle!’ he shouted, waving it at Ilkar. ‘Maybe I’ll beat the record today.’
‘Or die trying, if we’re lucky,’ muttered the mage.
‘Sorry, Ilkar, did you say something? You’ll have to speak up.’ Travers shambled towards his chair but another sight behind him caught Ilkar’s attention. Stripped to the waist, head down and carried in between Isman and another was Denser. His feet were dragging across the floor and he looked for all the world as if he was dead.