Erienne reached up and ruffled his hair. “Don't worry about me, I'll be fine on a night's sleep. But you be careful. Communion with Styliann is dangerous.”
Barras stood with the Council on the north walls of the College as he had done for much of the day, safe under a static HardShield and on ramparts secured by binding spells against the threat of catapult and battering ram. Even though the Wesmen hadn't laid one hand on the walls, he watched the progress of the battle with an increasing sense of hopelessness.
The day had started with an outrage, the Wesmen dousing the Julatsan dead with oil flung from heavy crossbow and light catapult and setting the corpses on fire with flaming arrows.
With pallid skin and clothing tinder dry, the bodies caught and burned quickly, removing from their loved ones the chance to honour and dignify them in death. And even as the choking, vile grey-black smoke boiled up the walls, sending ash and soot to cloud the early morning sky all around the College, the Wesmen had mounted their first attack under cover of the dreadful fog they'd created.
Though a predictable move, it was nonetheless the most difficult of the day to repel. From a breathable distance away from the choking, blinding smoke, mages blanketed the area outside the walls with FlameOrb, HotRain, and DeathHail. Forced to SpellShield the walls themselves against the inevitable inaccuracy and flashback, it was an expensive and wasteful barrage, called to a halt only when cloth-masked soldiers signalled Wesmen retreat.
And thus, as the smoke cleared, was the tone set for the day. Sporadic but sustained attack on any of two dozen points around the walls. Never enough to mount a serious threat to the integrity of the walls but enough to force continued spell deployment. Senedai knew what he was doing and he kept his own casualties at a minimum while he did it.
Had Barras heard Ilkar's swift assessment of the siege, he would have agreed with every succinct point. The Wesmen had time, or thought they did, and the Julatsans would tire eventually just like they had on the city borders. And one break was all the Wesmen really needed.
Barras rubbed at his eyes. Unusually for Wesmen, he was certain they would attack all night, probably with greater ferocity, forcing more mages and soldiers to remain on the walls while keeping those stood down from true rest. And all who stood guard faced the morale-sapping enormity of it all.
In the relative calm of the courtyard's edges and even ascending the steps to the ramparts, it was possible to detach oneself from the reality of the siege. But first view changed all that. Because, standing out of spell range in the rubble of the buildings they had demolished to make their muster areas, stood the Wesmen. Thousands upon thousands of them. Waiting. Sometimes quiet, sometimes roaring their songs of victory and hate or just chanting and taunting, voices echoing harshly off the college walls.
They were a rippling sea, waiting for the storm to whip them into a tidal wave. They were locusts, poised to strip the ripe fields.
And yet they still feared the magic. It made them cautious, just as before. It was Barras’ only solace. Had they not been so, surely the first attack would have proved enough. But Senedai had not committed enough of his armies.
As a result, the Julatsans, though temporarily relieved, had to beat off jab after jab, forever weakening ever so slightly while they were forced to watch the rape and destruction of their city. Fires burned in dozens of places. The sound of falling rubble and collapsing timbers filled the air when the Wesmen's voices did not, adding to the dead weight on the shoulders of every man, woman and child who heard or saw.
There was no way out but still Barras kindled the faintest hope. The Raven were inside the College, however temporarily, while outside—
“When will the Dordovans arrive?” he asked of Seldane who had recently returned from Communion.
“Their progress is slow,” she said. “There are Wesmen scouting and raiding parties all over the place, now they think the fight is nearly done. They've been forced into the woods three hours away. If they can make up the ground overnight, they'll attack just after dawn. If not, well your guess is as good as mine.”
“I must remember to wake early,” said Kerela.
“What's your latest assessment of our magical strength?” asked General Kard. He had stood with the Council between tours of the walls with one or other of them throughout the day. Kerela nodded for Vilif to speak.
The ancient, stooped and hairless secretary to the Council raised his eyebrows. “Not good,” he said. “Not good at all. HotRain and FlameOrb, while effective, are draining over these distances and repetitions. Assuming a similar intensity of attack throughout the night, I should think we'd be largely exhausted by midafternoon tomorrow. And then, my dear friend, we will all be in your very capable hands.”
Night had fallen on Julatsa but, as expected, many of the Wesmen had not stood down. Still, the catapult rounds thudded against shielded walls or dropped sporadically beyond, causing occasional damage to buildings and those foolish enough to loiter in the open.
Denser, tired and yawning, sat by Erienne in the bare Tower chamber. Erienne had just completed Communion with Pheone who had joined the Dordovan force. Conversely, feeling fresh and eager, Hirad and The Unknown demolished plates of meat and vegetables and were planning to spar for an hour or two before resting with The Raven until near dawn. Thraun still slept.
“We could go on searching for days,” said Ilkar. “But I don't think we'd turn up much more here. We've found some vital detail but the prize is in Xetesk and there's no point pretending otherwise.” He felt angry that Styliann had stolen a march on them but somehow was not surprised.
“To be honest, it may be a blessing,” said The Unknown. He took a long swallow of ale and wiped his hand across his mouth. “We've all identified that the diversion the Dordovans will cause is our best chance of getting out. Not only that, if they don't manage to break the siege, this College will eventually fall and, sorry Ilkar, but what we're doing can't be interrupted to help save it.”
“I know,” said Ilkar. “We all know. We are prepared.” There was a brief silence.
“We have to brief Kard and the Council,” said The Unknown. “We need horses, supplies, someone to open the North Gate at the right moment and, if we can get it, back up to punch through the line.”
“We'll get it,” said Ilkar. “Kerela is no fool. She can see the bigger picture. I'll talk to her.”
“Denser. Styliann?” invited The Unknown. Denser dragged himself from his slouch and rested his arms on the table.
“It was not an easy Communion,” he said. A chuckle ran around the table despite the mood. “Styliann is clearly determined to come with us though he hasn't said as much. He knows we have to have the texts he's found and says he'll meet us at Septern Manse to discuss them. We all know what that means.”
“When is he travelling?” asked Hirad, only vaguely annoyed at Styliann's apparent plan. He'd gone way past being surprised at anything he saw or heard. Dawnthief and dragons did that to a man.
“Tomorrow, same as us. He may even beat us there.”
“Protectors?”
“What do you think?”
“How many?” Hirad scowled.
“He wouldn't say.”
“I'll let you know,” said The Unknown, finality in his tone. “Erienne, tell us about the Dordovan situation.”
“There's not much that's new to tell you,” she said. “The Dordovans are marching slowly toward the North Gate and have been joined by a few of the disparate groups of Julatsans hiding out in the wilds. I took the liberty of telling Pheone of our need to break out and she will pass that information on to the Dordovan commander. However, their first duty is the liberation of Julatsa. That's it, really.”
“Did she give you any indication of Dordovan attacking intent?” asked Hirad.
Erienne frowned. “I don't get you.”
“Are they planning a broad attack front or a spear formation to drive a breakthrough?”
“She didn't say,” said
Erienne. “I seriously doubt she knows.”
“It's of no real matter,” said The Unknown. “We know our task in either instance. Right. Rest. Hirad, come on, let's loosen up and look in on Thraun. He needs to be ready at first light.”
Styliann sat with Dystran in the Tower of the Lord of the Mount, dismayed at the clutter the young mage had accumulated in just a few days. Order was everything. One day, Dystran might learn that. On the other hand, the time for his education may already have passed.
Styliann sipped from his Blackthorne red, not a classic vintage but sound enough, and took in the study. Dystran sat opposite him across the fire which burned low, its warmth already in the stone. Behind the new lord, two warriors and two mages sized Styliann up with open distrust while he had but Cil for a guard. Even so, he considered he held a considerable advantage.
“So, what is your answer?” asked Styliann, placing his empty glass in the hearth and feeling the fire warm his arm.
“Your proposal is, frankly, unbelievable,” said Dystran. “And since you refuse to submit to a TruthTell, I am sceptical of its veracity.”
“Come, Dystran, my refusal to take TruthTell has its reasons entirely elsewhere as you well know. I am offering you everything you desire for a single sheaf of papers we both know must reach The Raven for any of us to survive.”
“But you also demand the Protector army,” said Dystran.
“And for that one reason alone. Protection. In case it had escaped your attention, the Wesmen have invaded in large numbers and I must reach the Manse safely. You will be free to perform the Act of Renunciation within seven days and then they will be yours once more. Mine is a simple request and remember, when I leave the College, it is in your power to prevent me from ever returning.”
“And you are promising no challenge to my Stewardship?” Dystran shook his head in disbelief.
“Correct. I will sign the deeds confirming your ascension immediately after you have them prepared.” Styliann poured himself another glass of wine. “I cannot see a single reason why you should refuse.”
“And that is exactly why I am so concerned.”
Styliann chuckled. “I am glad to see your mind still turns. Nonetheless, my offer is everything that you want and nothing you don't.”
“Why?” Dystran leaned forward. “I cannot fathom why you would give up so tamely all for which you have lived.”
“No, I don't suppose you can,” said Styliann. He pitied Dystran's lack of true vision. Pitied it but welcomed it. “But there are some paths opened to us from which we dare not turn.”
“And the noon shade is one of those things?”
Styliann inclined his head. “In a sense, yes.”
Dystran looked away into the fire but Styliann could see his eyes flicking as the thoughts tumbled through his head. Indeed, he was probably in a close Communion with his aides, who had wisely elected to remain anonymous to Styliann. Dystran's silence was brief.
“The papers will be drawn up. You will sign them and leave the city immediately, returning only with my permission and carrying Septern's pages which are loaned to you for the purpose of saving Balaia. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes, my Lord,” said Styliann, rising. “And now I will leave you to your work. The Lord of the Mount enjoys little respite. I shall await the papers in the Grand Dining Room.”
“Food will be brought.”
“Thank you.” Styliann proffered a hand which Dystran took a little reluctantly. “Until we meet again.” Clutching Septern's writings, Styliann left the Tower.
Later, walking back toward the waiting Protectors, Cil trailing him leading a line of six laden pack horses, Styliann gazed down at the papers and parchments in his hands and wondered at the stupidity of the new Lord of the Mount. He hadn't questioned any of the papers Styliann had selected, indeed hadn't even glanced over them. Yet they were the keys to power and influence that made Dystran an insignificant pawn.
One day, he would realise that. It was a day Styliann relished.
It was hardly night at all, not in the way Hirad understood it. He stood in the lee of the north wall, a line of six saddled, bagged and magically-calmed horses tethered nearby while the latest assault on the College raged outside. The afterglow of spells flared visibly in the predawn dark, flooding the sky where the fires from a hundred burning buildings in Julatsa already carved their signatures.
Flames and hail lashed the approaching Wesmen whose screams mixed with the orders of the lead mages who directed the fire and ice. The thrum of bowstrings punctuated the voices but the rasp of swords was missing. No Wesmen had yet scaled the walls but they were getting closer and closer.
Hirad was content to stand in the shadows and listen. There was nothing he could do and he had to prepare himself, as did all The Raven. The morning and the Dordovan attack, when it came in, would be difficult. Risky. And The Raven weren't given to taking chances.
As he leant against the wall, hand absently rubbing his horse's shoulder, the door to the Tower opened and a huge figure stooped through it followed by one much slighter. The Unknown and Ilkar. He smiled as they ambled toward him, for all the world two friends merely out for a stroll, chatting as they walked. But Hirad could guess their words, and remarks about the warmth of the morning would not be among them.
Shortly afterward, lamp light spilled into the courtyard from the infirmary and three silhouettes emerged. In the centre the tall man walked hunched and bowed, his companions always half a step ahead. Theirs was a silent march.
“Been here long?” asked Ilkar as he approached.
“Long enough to hear the strains in the defence,” replied Hirad. “Feeling good?”
“As you ever can at this ungodly hour.”
“Any word from the Dordovans?” asked Hirad.
“’Be ready,’” replied Ilkar.
“That it?”
“Well they didn't give a tactical battle plan involving points of insertion, pressure magic and flank defence, if that's what you're asking.” Ilkar's ears pricked. “This was a brief Communion, not a roundtable discussion.”
“Call yourselves mages, I don't know…” Hirad's humour at Ilkar's irritation faded as Thraun loomed into view.
Someone else had brushed his hair into a ponytail; its untidiness told Hirad that. It was swept back from red-rimmed eyes which gazed blankly from a drawn and terribly tired face that betrayed every tear he had shed and all that were still to come. Hirad's heart lurched as he remembered all too clearly the aftermath of Sirendor's murder. There was nothing to be said but silence was not an option.
“The pain will ease,” he said. Thraun looked at him squarely before shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the ground once more.
“No,” he said. “I let him die.”
“You know that's not true,” said The Unknown.
“As a man, I could have stopped them but as a wolf I could only really understand my own fear. I let him die.”
Hirad opened and closed his mouth, discarding his reply for something more practical. “Can you ride?”
Thraun nodded, very briefly.
“Good. We need you, Thraun. We need your strength. You are Raven and we will always stand by you.”
Another nod but his shoulders had begun to shake. “Like I stood beside Will and let him die?” he managed though his throat was clogged.
“Sometimes even our best is not enough,” said Hirad.
“But I didn't give him that. I was lost and because of that Will is dead.”
“You don't know that,” said Erienne.
Thraun favoured her with a bleak stare. “Yes I do,” he said, repeating in a whisper, “Yes I do.”
Throughout a tense morning, the Wesmen mounted surge after surge as if sensing a change in the atmosphere in the College. They flung themselves at the walls with increasing fury and ferocity,.
Thousands were committed, their ladders and towers bumping against Julatsan stone to be destroyed by fire, their men by
wind and hail. But still they came and, as the mages tired, the threat of hand-to-hand fighting on the ramparts came ever closer.
During a temporary lull with the Wesmen regrouping out of spell range once more, The Raven moved up to the North Gate battlements to assess the state of the day. Julatsa was being systematically destroyed, her useful materials pressed into new service, and anything else broken or burned. Fires flickered everywhere and the flattened killing zone was widening by the hour.
Hirad turned to The Unknown as catapult rounds whistled overhead to smash into buildings and the deserted courtyard, warranting hardly a backward glance. The big warrior was staring impassively out over the sea of Wesmen, calculating their likely chances of escape while assessing the hit-and-run tactics that so drained the Julatsan mage defence.
“Thoughts, Unknown?”
“We're relying too heavily on the Dordovans causing a wide disruption,” he said. “If we don't strike from this side too, we won't break the line.”
“Positive, aren't you?”
The Unknown looked at him. “Realistic.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Well, let's assume the Dordovans strike on a front from that red bear standard across to the bull head one there.” He indicated two of the flapping Wesmen muster flags set about seventy yards apart. “We can reckon on there being an instant disruption of the line to either side of up to about twenty or thirty feet as men leave the front to fight behind them. If we can reinforce that break with an attack from here, even just a quick hit, we'll much improve our chances. Simple, really.”
Hirad chuckled. “We've done this before,” he said, his smile broadening at The Unknown's quizzical frown. “Although you weren't with us at the time. Trust me.”
The Unknown nodded and turned back to the Wesmen.
The attack came without warning, just as the sun passed its zenith. The Julatsan mages were bracing for another Wesmen surge when, on the northern periphery of the city, fire bloomed and the sound of falling masonry rumbled across the sky. Flash after flash threw shadow and blinding light across Julatsa, filling the day with vivid reds, oranges and blues.
Noonshade Page 40
