Noonshade

by James Barclay

  Ahead, Hirad could see Ilkar had cast and that Erienne and Denser were deep in concentration, at work on the spell that would bring down the buildings in the faces of the Wesmen. In front of them, Julatsan soldiers beckoned the crowd on, helping them to relative safety up the secured path that Hirad knew must be under increasing pressure all along its length.

  “Almost there,” he shouted. “Keep pushing on.”

  The arrows no longer fell in the crowd, bouncing instead from Ilkar's shield. Hirad and The Unknown reached the line of soldiers, stopped and spun round. The Wesmen were less than a hundred yards behind them.

  “Now Denser,” said Hirad. “Now Erienne.” He and The Unknown spread their arms and moved backward, ushering the soldiers back with them. The Wesmen roared on, sensing blood.

  “Hammer,” said Denser and Erienne together.

  Beneath their feet, the earth rumbled and shifted. Hirad felt a ripple travel through his body as it moved in the direction of the square, gathering in intensity.

  As he continued to move back, he saw the Wesmen line falter in its charge, still forty yards distant, as it neared the buildings. Under the enemy, cracks opened as the ground moved violently, pitching Wesmen from their feet, forcing most to stop and scramble for balance. Behind them, their comrades ploughed on, trampling the fallen underfoot until horns and shouts slowed them to a stop.

  To Hirad's left and right, the buildings shuddered, loose chips of stonework and dust clouded the outlines and roof slates shifted and fell. A pause followed in which Denser and Erienne both jerked their arms skyward before flattening them in an arc to the cruciform shape. Then they turned and ran.

  Without bothering to wait, Hirad did the same, closing to Ilkar's ear as he did so. “Time to go, Ilkar. Keep that shield up if you can.”

  The Julatsan nodded. Hirad grabbed one of his arms and led him away, all the time with one eye on the scene behind.

  Slabs of stone twice a man's height burst from the ground, spearing the street in two dozen places and showering cobbles and mud in all directions. They rose under the buildings and the feet of the Wesmen causing chaos and destruction while all the time the tremors and ripples gained strength as they focused under their targets.

  With a flat crack that echoed into the lightening sky, the city administration offices slid left into the street. Thousands of stones burst from their bindings to cascade, bounce and crash down to cover the escape of the Julatsans, the clatter of pebbles complementing the rumble of the main parts of the building and the fragmenting of tiles. Moments later, barracks to the right began to rock as slab after slab rose inside, sending slate and timber into the square, scattering the Wesmen line. Across the street a fissure opened in the ground, the fault running left and right gouting dust into the air and yawning three feet wide in places.

  “Let's take this chance!” roared Hirad. “Push it on, straight to the College. Come on!”

  Falling back in preordered form, the Julatsan city guard closed ranks as the whole force began slowly to relinquish the corridor while maintaining the integrity of its shortening length. They had been trained for just such action. Drilled for years in fighting street to street, falling back in safety to the next bottleneck when required and striking out in guerrilla action to weaken and demoralise attacking forces, the guard moved efficiently to the College.

  Inside the cordon, The Raven ran the line of city folk, cajoling, urging and encouraging while Ilkar's moving HardShield, joined shortly after by those of Denser and Erienne, provided significant protection from the arrows that fell sporadically into the running crowd.

  Hirad knew the building collapses wouldn't hold the Wesmen for long and already, as the desultory arrow drop indicated, they were finding their way along parallel alleys, though not in sufficient numbers to overwhelm the well-drilled Julatsan city guard who had beaten off all attempts thus far. But there was one point where weakness in their line was inevitable and, glancing back to see the retreat under control, he made his decision.

  “Unknown!” he called above the cries and screams of the crowd and the barked orders of the guard Captains. “The southern market.”

  The Unknown nodded. “Raven! Raven with me!” Dropping their shields, the trio of mages formed up behind the warrior pair and ran for the open space of Julatsa's southern market place where, in peaceful times, grain and fresh produce were traded.

  It was asway with people, the yelling of soldiers, the running of the old and the young and the clash of weapons as the Wesmen battered at the slim line of defence, heedless of the spells that dropped death on their defenceless bodies.

  Hirad headed left across the market where the Julatsan line was being pushed back, not needing to check if The Raven were with him. In front of him, he could see hundreds of Wesmen spilling into a wide access street and running to the attack. Facing them, two dozen Julatsan guard and a pair of mages, one of whom was maintaining a HardShield as occasional bouncing arrows indicated.

  “Denser, we need FlameOrbs. Ilkar, relieve the shield mage. Erienne, whatever you've got to keep them back. Unknown, with me.” Hirad ran into the centre of the line, pulled an injured man away with his left arm and swung his blade right-handed and overhead, feeling the metal crash through the shoulder of his target. Behind him as he squared up, he heard The Unknown issuing instructions to the Julatsan squad leader.

  “Take half your men and shore up the rolling retreat to the south. Leave the mages with us. Keep the people moving. We're doing well but we're not home yet.”

  “Yes sir,” said the squad leader. Moments later, The Unknown was beside him, his blade making the space he needed, cleaving the air in a tight upward arc, punching a Wesman from his feet as he tried desperately to block. The enemy warrior crashed into those behind him, his axe shaft splintered, his hands bloodied. Hirad smashed a fist into his next victim's face and drove his blade straight into the Wesman's stomach.

  “Sir?” Hirad shook his head. “Are you sure he knew who you were?” He drove his sword at the face of an enemy who blocked it with his own, jumping back as he did so.

  The Unknown risked a glance across at the barbarian, his double-handed blade sweeping through in a defensive arc, connecting with nothing but keeping back everything. Hirad saw the big man's mouth turn half up as he shrugged.

  “He just recognised authority when he spoke to it,” he said.

  “Arrogant bastard.” Hirad smiled.

  “Big sword.” The Unknown winked and hefted his blade. “It usually does the trick.”

  The press on the Julatsan line had eased just a little. The arrival of The Raven had energised the flagging Julatsan guard and given their adversaries pause for thought. There was not quite so much determination to breach into the square. An air of anxiety flickered across the faces of the Wesmen facing them and still any arrows bounced from the HardShield, now almost certainly held by Ilkar.

  Denser's FlameOrbs exploded into the partial standoff, flitting over the heads of the first Wesmen and landing in the thick of their number, inflicting maximum damage, panic and chaos.

  Though it was a sight he'd seen many times before, Hirad still had to steel himself against the horror of the magical flame that ate through armour and flesh like acid, burned with the intensity of a blacksmith's forge and was as hard to douse. Those Wesmen who could, scattered from the effect of the flames, leaving their comrades to tear at clothes, beat at flames that consumed skin and hair and die in screaming agony.

  Hirad and The Unknown were ready for the fallout as the instinctive move from the centre of the spell pushed unprepared Wesmen toward them. They led the Julatsans, striking hard and fast, cutting the enemy down as they all but stumbled on to the Julatsan defenders’ blades.

  And before Denser's magical fires guttered, HotRain was falling among the confused ranks of Wesmen who broke and scattered backward, their wounded comrades and dead forgotten in the rush to dodge the tears of flame.

  Hirad laughed. “On your way, Wesmen
!” he called after them. “You'll never take the East.”

  He and The Unknown stooped among the fallen, their daggers finishing those who still lived before they cleaned their blades on charred furs and scorched cloth and swept up discarded axes, knives and swords, prising or chopping away locked fingers.

  “We've bought a little time here,” said The Unknown, glancing behind him as he reformed the line with Hirad, passing his haul of weapons to soldiers standing ready. “But just a little. Look at that movement.” He indicated with a lazy sweep of his sword, flicking the heavy blade as nonchalantly as he might a stick. Hirad followed his gaze.

  The Wesmen had reformed some thirty yards distant, a massive gap in the context of this conflict, at a crossroad where a narrow alley crossed the main street. Behind their somewhat bemused defensive line, Wesmen poured across the street, heading north toward the College. The numbers weren't great but it could be assumed that the movement was being mirrored on the opposite side of the southern market.

  “The last thing we need is to come under sustained attack before we're into the defence from the College walls,” said The Unknown. “We need more weight further up the chain.”

  Hirad glanced over his shoulder. The square was emptying rapidly, now populated principally by city guardsmen and soldiers.

  “I think we just need to leave,” said Hirad. “If we don't, we'll soon be overwhelmed anyway, defence from the College walls or not.”

  The Unknown nodded. “Agreed.” He raised his voice just a little. “All right. On my mark, we move backward. Denser, Erienne, look after Ilkar.”

  The Julatsans, under The Raven's calming voices, began to back away into the square, triggering an instant reaction among the Wesmen who advanced, crowding into the street, still cautious and thirty yards distant.

  “Shield down,” said Ilkar almost immediately. “Wait. This is no good; they'll overwhelm us if they charge, we need to keep them further back. We need static ForceCones covering every exit to the square. Any mage that can cast, do it. Hirad, trust me.”

  “Always,” said Hirad. Ilkar began casting. “I'll stay with him. The rest of you find those mages.”

  Erienne hesitated, made a half move but Denser stayed her. The Unknown turned to the Julatsan squad leader, talking over the shouts he could hear across the square as the retreat continued.

  “You heard him. We've got to buy more time. Run.” He moved to stand by Ilkar's free shoulder, Denser and Erienne forming a mage line behind the trio. “Now is not the time to split us,” said The Unknown. “We are The Raven.” He held his sword in front of him, point tapping rhythmically on the stone at his feet.

  A calm came over Hirad. He smiled and faced the enemy. Beside him, Ilkar's low intonation stopped and he spoke the command word. The ForceCone, invisible and impenetrable, hurtled toward the advancing Wesmen.

  “HardShield up,” said Erienne.

  “Ilkar is secure,” added Denser.

  Numerical superiority belatedly overcame fear of magic and the Wesmen charged, angry yells spilling from their lips, axes and swords catching the first rays of morning light. But a mere handful of paces in, the charge was abruptly blunted as the leading warriors smashed into Ilkar's ForceCone which barricaded the street so effectively.

  Wesmen bounced from its invisible surface, stumbling back and sprawling, those behind them, not willing to believe what their eyes showed them, hurdling their prone comrades only to discover the truth as noses were bloodied and axes sprung from hands.

  Bewilderment replaced anger for a while as confused men picked themselves from the ground, gathered up weapons and moved cautiously forward again, hands outstretched, until they encountered Ilkar's barrier.

  Hirad watched them with a kind of detached amusement, confident in both the Raven mages’ spells. The Unknown, he could sense, was monitoring the square behind them, his eyes no doubt assessing defence of other entrances and his mind calculating when the time would be right to run.

  In front of Hirad, the Wesmen quickly appraised their problem. A few ineffectual strikes against the Cone did nothing but risk sprained wrists and the arrows loosed bounced or snapped on impact, springing back toward the rapidly growing force behind.

  The archers switched their attention to the boundaries of the Cone, testing its height by sending arrows up at ever steepening angles until they cleared its upper edge, plunging down merely to bounce from Erienne's HardShield, choking off the fledgling cheers of the Wesmen. They fell silent and dropped away a couple of paces. They knew they were up against magic they couldn't penetrate but knew also that they had one last weapon. Time. No spell lasts forever.

  Hirad checked The Raven. Ilkar and Erienne were deep in the maintenance of their spells. Denser stood with a hand on Erienne's shoulder, his eyes open but unfocused, monitoring the castings. The Unknown had backed up a few paces to get a clearer view of the square in its entirety. He was frowning but not scowling. Things weren't critical.

  So Hirad turned back to the enemy, watching their growing frustration. He caught the gaze of a Wesman warrior. He grinned broadly. The man had a smear of blood on his face and the skin of his knuckles was broken though he gripped the shaft of his axe hard. His eyes, dark and brooding under heavy brows, stared from a square face pocked by weather and skirmish. Thin lips, large ears and a mass of unruly hair framed his scornful facial cast. Hirad cocked his head, let his expression harden, then straightened his posture.

  “Think you can take me?” he asked. The Wesman, apparently with a rudimentary grasp of eastern dialect, nodded. “Know who I am? Know who we are?” No response. “We are The Raven. We are your nightmare. We are your death.” Borrowed words but the Wesman wouldn't know it. Hirad saw him shift his stance and retake the grip on his axe.

  “Must you?” asked The Unknown, at his shoulder once again. “They'll only run faster.”

  “Not fast enough. What's up?” Hirad saw The Unknown chewing his lip.

  “There aren't enough mages in the square. The Wesmen are peppering arrows where they know we have no shields. It's only a matter of time before one of the Cones goes down.”

  “And the prisoners?”

  “They've cleared the square but it's slow going. And there's fighting further up the secure corridor.”

  “How long do you think we've got?” asked Hirad.

  “How good are the Wesmen archers?” replied The Unknown.

  Good enough.

  A roar echoed through the square. Moments later, the first of the Julatsan guardsmen sprinted past The Raven's position, heading north.

  “If we stay, we'll die,” said Hirad. In front of him, the Wesmen tensed, ready.

  The Unknown nodded and leaned into Ilkar.

  “Ilkar, we have to leave. When I squeeze your shoulder, drop the Cone and run. Don't look back.” Ilkar's reply was a slight nod of the head. Denser relayed the same message to Erienne.

  “Ready, Hirad? Denser?” The Unknown took in their curt acknowledgements, placed a hand on Ilkar's shoulder and squeezed. The Raven's Julatsan punched his hands outward and the Cone shot into the unsuspecting Wesmen before dissipating, knocking a dozen from their feet and causing momentary disarray. It was all the gap the Raven needed.

  “Run!” yelled Hirad. And The Raven ran, Denser snatching the slower Erienne into his arms and springing into the air on load-bearing ShadowWings. Tearing left into the square, Hirad looked right to see a wave of Wesmen forging into the open space and, in front of them, a handful of Julatsan warriors and mages desperate to escape the deluge.

  Ahead, the column of ex-prisoners, all pretence at order gone, stampeded toward the College while at either side of them city and College guardsmen fought grim battles with Wesmen determined to close the pincer.

  The Raven trio, under Ilkar's running HardShield, took up rear station on the chase. Above them, Denser swooped in again and again, Erienne scattering HotRain to disrupt the Wesmen charge and buy precious time. And as they approached pockets of def
ence at entry points to the corridor, The Unknown or Hirad barked the order to disengage to the Julatsan guard.

  They gained on the prisoner column quickly, the walls of the College looming large. Great sheets of magical fire sealed the path to the south gates across the cobbled space in front of the ancient school and, mercifully, hid the mounds of bodies that rotted and stank where they lay.

  They were close to sanctuary, so very close, when the last alley defenders buckled under the weight of Wesmen numbers and the enemy spilled into the street, their weapons flailing around the terrified city folk.

  “Denser, block that entrance!” roared The Unknown as he upped his pace toward the break that threatened to trap them. Hirad swore and plunged into the crowd, his sword slashing the spine of a Wesman whose axe had bitten into the skull of an old man, killing him within sight of safety.

  The Dark Mage and Erienne flew over his head. HotRain fell, this time a downpour, a curtain of flame drops, orange, red and white splashing over stone, brick and body.

  To Hirad's left, The Unknown, his momentum giving him great strength, picked up a Wesman with one hand around his neck and hurled him from the scattering crowd.

  “Run. Get to the doors. Now!” he yelled. Behind them, the Wesmen army poured up the street, showers of arrows clattering off walls and pouring down into the fleeing Julatsans. Hirad chopped the thighs of another Wesman, stooped and picked up the child who had stumbled at his feet and ran, the shouts of the enemy firing into his ears.

  “Go! Go!” he shouted and Ilkar dropped the HardShield and chased ahead, The Unknown just in advance of him. Over their heads, spells from the ranks of Julatsan mages arced out, fire, ice and hail tearing into the storming Wesmen army, whose charge slowed and stopped where their men were cut down by the magic against which they were helpless.