The Magelands Epic: Storm Mage (Book 6)

by Christopher Mitchell

  His mouth gave out a last breath and she withdrew her hand from the shrunken, withered corpse.

  Thorn stood, gazing at her hand.

  She was no longer just a hedgewitch, she was a soulwitch. Her touch could take life as well as give it; destroy as well as heal.

  And she had killed someone.

  She glanced down at the dried-up body of Gatlang who, a few minutes before, had thought she belonged to him. She spat on the corpse.

  Thorn stood motionless for several minutes, her mind going over everything that had happened since the raid at Rainsby, her thoughts unable to focus on the future. She felt like she had been smoking keenweed; her senses were sharp and strong, and she was wide awake. She turned to the room’s only door. Beyond it, a dozen Sanang warriors were waiting. If she concentrated, she could hear whispers, and the occasional movement. She prised the knife from Gatlang’s dead fingers and sat down next to the lamp by the door.

  She knew the warriors outside would be hesitant to disturb their leader; if she could wait long enough, then maybe the marines would arrive. If the warriors entered before then, she would fight, and would kill any she touched.

  The seconds and minutes dragged by, Thorn’s knuckles white from clenching the hilt of the knife.

  A soft tap rapped on the door.

  Then another. ‘Eh, boss?’ came a voice.

  Thorn extinguished the lamp, casting the room into complete darkness.

  ‘Boss?’ the voice repeated. ‘Sorry, but the fighting’s getting closer. We reckon the imperials must have broken through the harbour gates.’

  Silence.

  ‘We were thinking, boss,’ the voice went on, ‘that it might be time to leave.’

  Silence, followed by footsteps and floorboards creaking.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said another voice. There was a thud on the door. ‘Boss!’ the other voice cried.

  The door opened slowly, and a dim lamplight entered the room. A man stepped inside. His legs were bare under his kilt, and Thorn reached out and touched her fingertips to his calf. Instead of drawing his life from him, she sent in her new power, the one that had frozen Gatlang; only this time she sent a much stronger surge, a dark power leaping from her fingers and entering the warrior’s body. He cried out, his hands to his throat as death gripped him. He fell backwards, convulsing violently on the floor as the other warriors stared.

  Thorn sprang to her feet and took off, bursting through the door and leaping over the writhing body. There was an open window, and she ran between two warriors and vaulted through it, landing onto the cobbles outside to a roar of surprise. The front door of the house was kicked open, and the warriors rushed through it, wielding their swords and axes. Thorn rolled across the cobbles and scrambled to her feet.

  Sanang warriors stared at her from every direction, their mouths open.

  ‘She’s ours!’ cried one of the warrior band as they ran from the house. The lead warriors barged into the Sanang on the street, shoving them out of the way to get to Thorn. Someone grabbed her arm from behind, and she sent a burst of power through her skin. A voice roared out in agony, then the man behind her fell, and she started to run.

  ‘Soulwitch!’ someone screamed. ‘Kill her!’

  The warriors closest to her backed away, their eyes drawn to the body of the dead man on the ground, and she bolted down the street, the pound of boots following behind. To her left she saw the town walls rising, and small groups of Sanang were hurrying towards a central road where the River Gates lay. To her right rumbled a low roar of battle, and the fires that had broken out were spreading through the district, lightening the night sky. She took off in the direction of the battle sounds. Something hit her leg and she went down, tumbling across the cobbles. She was back on her feet in a second, feeling no pain, a handaxe spinning on the ground next to her. She glanced at her leg, watching the axe-wound heal, then set off again, the energy she had taken from Gatlang powering her steps.

  The sounds of her pursuit began to fade away; while the noise of battle grew ahead of her. She turned down a street, lost, and kept running. The road was deserted and dark, the houses on either side looted and derelict. She came to a halt, seeing it was a dead end. She glanced around, panting in the darkness, her eyes scanning the street. She froze as she heard the sound of approaching boots, accompanied by low, Sanang voices. Torches appeared at the end of the road, and Thorn ran for the nearest house.

  ‘There’s the witch!’ cried someone, and a roar went up.

  Thorn came to the first door and crashed through it, the broken timbers rotten and dry. She raced through the hallway of the house, hearing the sound of the crowd getting closer behind her. She reached the rear of the house and found the back door. She twisted the handle, but it was locked. There was a gutted-out kitchen to her left, and she ran into it. Wrenching the window open, she jumped down to a long, narrow courtyard in the centre of a square of tenements. Part of the roof of a building on her right was on fire, and the flames gave the courtyard a flickering glow.

  She yelled out as something struck her side, and she fell over, hitting the flagstones. She reached with her hand and found a crossbow bolt embedded above her waist. Another bolt flew out, hitting the cobbles a foot from her, and she tried to get to her feet. Her energy was beginning to fade, and the wound in her side was taking all of her power to manage.

  A bolt struck the back of her right thigh and she fell back to her knees, the pain growing.

  ‘That’s far enough, soulwitch.’

  She turned, and saw a Sanang warrior a few yards away, a loaded crossbow in his arms. Behind him stood a score of warriors, staring at her with hate, their swords and axes ready in their hands. The lead warrior raised the crossbow to his shoulder and loosed again.

  Thorn collapsed to the cobbles as the bolt hit her in the back of her left shoulder, the tip pushing through to the front. She clung on to her senses as the pain threatened to overwhelm her. The band of warriors moved across the courtyard to surround her as she lay on the cobbles, three bolts piercing her body.

  ‘Build up a fire, boys,’ cried the warrior with the bow. ‘There’s going to be a burning.’

  Chapter 28

  Storm at Dawn

  Rainsby, Imperial Plateau – 9th Day, Second Third Summer 525

  ‘I wish I knew what was going on in Stretton Sands,’ said the older Kellach soldier, a bottle of whisky gripped in his left hand. The brick walls of the underground shelter rumbled as another boulder smashed into the defensive lines. ‘The marines should be there by now.’

  Around him sat an entire company of imperial troopers. Sprinkled among them were a few older veterans, some maimed or ill; but the majority were young Holdings recruits, fresh off a boat. Keir eyed them from the shadows, a solitary lantern providing the chamber’s only illumination. The soldier with the whisky wasn’t an officer, but the teenaged troopers looked up to him as if he were, his calm features giving them all confidence.

  Another rumble hit the chamber, and the ceiling shook, sending particles of dust floating through the air. Several of the troopers trembled. Keir took a swig of warm ale and sat back, keeping his distance from the others. He was the only person in the room not wearing a uniform of some kind, and he could tell by the way many of the troopers were glancing at him that they didn’t know why he was there. The sergeant who had brought him to the wall was sitting a few yards to his right, her eyes closed; but Keir knew she wasn’t sleeping. After leaving Kelsey behind in Madden’s Tower, the officer and sergeant had taken Keir in a carriage to the headquarters of the army, where a general had shown him a map and told him to do whatever he could to help. Then it was back into a carriage again, with only Sergeant Demi for company, as they made their way through the Old Town walls and into the Outer City. They had passed rows of pulverised and burnt-out houses until the great walls came into sight.

  The defences of Rainsby had been reinforced on the town side by the construction of a vast earthen
rampart that backed up onto the stone blocks of the wall. The mound had been filled with rubble and packed earth, and large chambers had been buried deep within, accessible by a series of hatches and escape tunnels. Over the course of the long siege, much of the great wall had been reduced to rubble by continual bombardment, but the earthen rampart had held the defences together. Keir had just arrived at the base of the wall when the Rahain artillery attack had commenced. Troopers ran down from the battlements as the first boulders struck the wall. Many rushed towards the ruined streets to get out of range, while other squads and companies began descending into their hidden refuges under the long mound.

  For five hours Keir had sat in the bunker, the time measured out by a large, mounted hour-glass next to the lantern on the wall. Hundreds of boulders had struck the defences in that time. The older soldiers talked about how it could only mean one thing – that the Rahain were ready to attack again. Some forty thousand soldiers had been seen approaching in massed ranks in the night, their armour glinting in the torchlight.

  ‘An hour until dawn,’ the old veteran said, swigging from the whisky bottle. ‘I reckon it’ll be soon. The sky in the east will be brightening. Aye, soon.’

  A trooper offered a stick of keenweed to Keir and he took it. He inhaled, and felt the false energy flow through him, easing his tiredness, and banishing any thought of sleep. He passed the weedstick on, and glanced around. An hour? He flexed his fingers. Was he ready?

  His eyes turned to the old veteran, sitting calmly on an upturned crate. He radiated a quiet confidence; was it real? Keir entered the man’s head, and found it churning with troubles and worry. He feared that the Empress had made a grave mistake, sending the entire marine division off to Stretton Sands, and leaving only the bare minimum to defend Rainsby. The last time the Rahain had attacked in force, back in spring, it had been the marines who had driven them back out of the city; without them, could they do it again? The atrocity at the harbour of Rainsby had cried out for vengeance, and the Empress had swallowed the bait and ordered the recapture of Stretton Sands, but what use would that be if Rainsby fell? The bastard Rahain had planned it all, and the Empress, driven by anger, had fallen into their trap. The soldier glanced over the faces of the young recruits crammed onto the ground before him. He needed to be brave, to show them he wasn’t afraid, but he knew his mask could slip at any moment, after all, he was probably going to die in the next few hours. He took another long swig of whisky.

  Keir withdrew from his head and looked away. Fear crept through him like a shadow, and he slunk back against the wall.

  He felt a nudge in his right side.

  ‘You alright?’

  He turned, and saw Sergeant Demi looking at him. Was he alright? He frowned, not seeming to understand the question. Another heavy rumble hit the bunker, and the ceiling groaned.

  The sergeant offered him a cigarette. ‘Sit tight. The walls of this chamber are ten feet thick; nothing’s getting through.’

  ‘The bombardment doesn’t bother me,’ said Keir. ‘I’m more worried about what happens when it stops.’

  The sergeant smiled. ‘Aye,’ she said, smoking. ‘That’ll be something.’

  ‘Do you have a plan?’

  The sergeant shrugged. ‘My job is to look after you; make sure you don’t get a bolt through the eye. I go where you go.’

  ‘And where am I supposed to go?’

  She squinted at him. ‘Were you not listening to the general? He showed you on the map.’

  Keir remembered nothing of what the officers had said to him at headquarters, his mind a blank.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, ‘just follow me. I’ll get you into position, and then you can do your thing.’

  She winked at him and he glanced away. She was only a couple of years older than him, and yet she made him feel like a boy. She had seen so much, and done so much; witnessed death, and most likely dealt it out as well, whereas his upbringing had protected him from violence. He thought of his father, a man famed for his bravery and leadership. How Keir had despised him for it, mocking his clumsy domesticity, and ridiculing his past as a chief of slaves. He and Kelsey had tormented him for years, just as they had tormented and bullied Corthie.

  The bombardment stopped.

  The troopers in the bunker began to stir as if newly awoken, and the old veteran jumped down from the crate, laying the empty bottle of whisky by his feet.

  ‘Lads,’ he said, ‘lassies, get your gear ready and line up.’ He watched over the crowd of troopers as they strapped their armour on and grabbed their weapons. ‘It’s going to look different up top,’ the old soldier went on, ‘the last of the battlements have probably gone, so your going to have to find cover wherever you can. Stay in your squads; defend the wall. If you have to pull back then keep your discipline; make the bastards fight for every damned street. The entire Outer City is a death trap for any attacker.’ He paused, his voice almost cracking. ‘Fight, for Rainsby, for the Empress, and for everything we love.’

  He nodded to a veteran by the door, who swung it open, sending a billow of dust in from the tunnel. Another veteran handed a lamp to the lead troopers standing in line, and they disappeared into the brick-lined gloom of the passageway.

  Keir and the sergeant waited until most of the company had left the chamber, then got up from where they had been sitting. The old veteran was standing by the door, waiting for the last to leave.

  ‘Who’s the boy?’ he said to the sergeant as they approached.

  Keir bristled, but said nothing.

  ‘Young fire mage,’ Sergeant Demi said, patting Keir on the back. ‘Unproven in battle.’

  The veteran nodded as he eyed Keir. ‘You ready to fight, son?’

  ‘Yes,’ Keir said, his mouth dry.

  The veteran glanced back at the sergeant. ‘Go easy on him. Start small.’

  ‘Aye, boss,’ the sergeant said, then she and Keir entered the tunnel. It was in almost complete darkness, and the dust lay thick in the stuffy air. Up ahead, there was a low roar of noise, that increased as they reached the end of the tunnel. It opened out onto a debris-strewn road, where troopers from the company were scattering to the left and right. The roar became deafening as Keir peered outside. Behind him, the earthen rampart rose up at a steep incline to reach the height of the walls, which were silhouetted against the night sky. To his right, the east, a glow was appearing on the horizon, just as the veteran had said. Ahead was the devastated ring of ruins that had been the Outer City. Flames were rising from a few spots within the dense streets, while beyond, the Old Town walls stood proud.

  ‘Move!’ cried the sergeant, pushing him away from the entrance. She glanced around, and started pulling Keir by the arm across the street and away from the wall, her shield covering his back as they ran. Relieved to be going in the opposite direction to the Rahain army, Keir sped along, following her as she reached one of the few two-storey structures left standing. She raced up the steps and they came out onto the open upper floor, its roof long-destroyed, its walls stained by scorch marks.

  ‘Fuck,’ she muttered as she gazed out through a ruined window towards the city wall. Thousands of Rahain were storming the great mounds of rubble, their ranks filling the valley beyond the defensive line. Hundreds were already on top of the earthen rampart, fighting companies of imperial troopers that had emerged from the bunkers. A few isolated stumps of battlements were the scenes of intense violence, as both side fought to gain control of them.

  Two rumbles filled the air. One turned to a whine as a great boulder flew overhead, this time coming from imperial units dug into the Outer City. The giant rock struck the far side of the rampart, gouging its way through rows of Rahain soldiers.

  The other rumble lingered.

  ‘Thunder over the Inner Sea,’ said the sergeant. ‘We might get rain at last.’

  Keir ignored her, his eyes fixed on the struggle for the rampart. Imperial forces were holding their lines in many places, but in oth
ers the Rahain were starting to push them back. A hundred sounds assailed his ears as he stared at the battle for the walls. Overhead, missiles and boulders were soaring through the air, pounding the Rahain ranks on the other side of the wall.

  ‘I have kindling,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To get a fire started. What’s your range?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You have been trained, though?’

  ‘My father…’ Keir said, then stopped. What was he doing? He didn’t belong in a battle. Panic started to grip him.

  ‘Is he a fire mage, too?’ the sergeant said.

  ‘He was a sparker.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry. Not that he’s a sparker. It’s that you said “was”, so I assume…?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘But he trained you?’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this is a mistake. I can’t do it.’

  The sergeant nodded, and leaned on the window sill next to where they were standing. She lit a pair of cigarettes and passed one to him. Keir took it, his gaze going back to the battle. The imperials were being pushed back across the summit of the rampart amid fierce fighting. Their lines seemed like thin ribbons to him, while the mass of Rahain surging against them appeared endless, their rear ranks disappearing into the darkness.

  ‘We’re losing.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘for the moment. We have a few surprises left, but with no marines in reserve, things might get a bit grim; I’m not going to lie to you. If the Rahain win the Outer City, then they’ll be able to bring their artillery right up to the Old Town walls, and the whole of Rainsby will be within range, including the harbour. We might have no choice but to evacuate.’ She took a drag off her cigarette as Keir stared at her, his hands trembling. ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘there’s a long way to go before that happens. We’ll make them pay for every yard.’ She patted him on the back. ‘Don’t worry yourself about it. When I heard you were only sixteen I thought to myself that this might happen. I’ve seen plenty of brave and cocky teenagers freeze the first time they get to a battle; you’re not the only one it’s happened to.’