Noonshade

by James Barclay

  Cheers went up around the northern ramparts, mages lost their concentration and all around the College faces turned and arms pointed. The Dordovans had arrived.

  For a few timeless moments, there was no reaction from the Wesmen. Then, the sound of staccato orders rattled across the northern forces facing the College. Whole sections of the line detached, the Wesmen ordering defence by tribe and standard, their places taken by their fellows, the entire muster thinning. Those dispatched to the rear headed away along the streets and an atmosphere of relief washed over the College just as one of consternation appeared to grip the Wesmen.

  The Julatsans’ grim expressions were replaced by smiles and hope grew from the ashes of despondency. The College defenders roared on their saviours and, with the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting filtering across the city on the back of more and more arcing spells, Hirad had seen enough.

  “It's got to be now,” he said. He, The Unknown and Ilkar ran down the steps to the waiting party beneath the gatehouse. The Raven would ride behind a quintet of shielded mages and in front of two hundred foot soldiers. Swinging into his saddle, Hirad took in the others.

  “Ready?” Nods asserted that they were. At a signal from The Unknown, the North Gate swung open.

  “Make it quick!” he urged, “The Wesmen won't stand around waiting for us.”

  The small force rode out at a gallop toward the Wesmen who, clearly distracted by the attack to their rear, made no immediate move.

  The two central mages loosed ForceCones that had been long in preparation. The twin spells battered through the Wesmen lines, hurling warriors to either side and driving the luckless to their deaths against buildings and piles of rubble where their bodies were flattened and torn to pieces. A heartbeat later, FlameOrbs arced away from the palms of the outrider mages to spread panic and scatter the sides of the cone-formed passage. The mages wheeled away, tracked by the fifth whose shield was not needed.

  “Raven!” roared Hirad. “Raven with me!”

  Keeping close form, The Raven sped into the gap, swords flailing to right and left, Ilkar's HardShield over their heads and Denser and Erienne's FlameOrbs splashing killing fire further to the sides. Only Thraun took no part. Hunched in his saddle, head down, he let his horse follow, its fear keeping it from straying.

  Hirad, chopping the axe arm from an enemy, bellowed his delight at the rush. Flames rose to either side, Wesmen careered in every direction, his horse threatened to bolt at each stride, yet through the line they went. Hurled stone, axe and timber bounced from Ilkar's shield, The Unknown's sword flashed light and blood as it hacked a passage and The Raven tore through the chaos, breaking through the line to a cheer from the walls of the College, audible even with the shouts of the Wesmen ringing in their ears.

  To their left, the Dordovans advanced, the well-marshalled column defended by mage fire, mage ice and three thousand swords and shields. The College had sent an élite.

  Hirad made to join the attack, seeing the chance to inflict more suffering but The Unknown would not let his horse yield to the barbarian's pressure to turn.

  “Not this time, Hirad,” he shouted. “This is one fight we have to leave behind.”

  And, with the running remnants of the Wesmen siege force ignoring or avoiding them on their way to join the last battle for the College of Julatsa, The Raven galloped through deserted back streets and out onto the trampled, muddied green of the open mage lands.

  Noon. And on the walls beyond the Long Rooms, the defence broke, Wesmen pouring on to the ramparts through the breach. Below, a back up team of Julatsan guard raced up the stairs, yelling defiance, charging headlong into the enemy, allowing those around them the time to regroup.

  Across the courtyard, men, women and children ran in all directions carrying the wounded away from the battle, shipping water to the dozen fires that crackled where Wesmen flaming rounds had fallen, and carrying wood, weapons and food to the defence.

  From the Tower, Kard's flagmen passed orders from the field Captains while the General himself strode the walls, his words boosting morale and his sword running with Wesmen blood. And at six points stood a Council member, directing spell offence, maintaining shields and simply being visible. All but Endorr, who was conscious but helpless.

  Outside the confines of the College, the Dordovan force, while deflecting significant attention from the beleaguered Julatsans, had not reached the walls. Their progress, halted for over three hours, was grindingly slow and every passing moment brought the fall of the College inexorably closer.

  The Raven's escape, half a day previously, had raised the hopes of Balaia as a whole but Julatsa was paying the price.

  Barras orchestrated a barrage of HotRain which fell among the Wesmen attacking the north gate, scattering those not too damaged to run. He was desperate for some respite but, under a near cloudless sky, the fog of battle assaulted his every sense. The clash of weapons, the thud of catapults, the shouts of orders, the cries of children and the screams of the terrified, the wounded and the dying battered his ears. Colour flooded his eyes, a mist of ash and blood filled the sky, myriad weapons glinted in the sunlight, the ramparts and wall caps ran red, standards moved in the throng clamouring to gain the walls, flames sprang from the ground and the light of attack spells flashed and seared across open spaces around the College.

  He could taste and smell fear and power, sweat and blood; he could feel the pain of every Julatsan who died and the desperation in all those that yet lived. They were not stopping the Wesmen and every invader that died made no dent in the mass still to come.

  Despite their spirit, their spells and their obdurate strength, the Julatsan rear guard was simply not big enough and the Dordovans’ failure to break the Wesmen lines and reach the College would surely prove fatal.

  As he watched, a shout rang out to his right. Thousands of Wesmen were pouring into the square in front of the North Gate. Beyond them, the dust of the Dordovan battle still filled the air but something was wrong. Next to Barras, one of his mages sat in the lee of the battlements, accepting Communion. It was brief and at the end, she looked into Barras’ eyes and the tears in them told him everything.

  “The Dordovans are beaten,” she said. “They're retreating.” Barras felt a knot tighten over his heart and fought to keep his despair from his face. He reached down and helped the woman up.

  “Come on,” he said. “Don't give up. We can beat them.” But as he turned to give his next orders he knew Julatsa was all but finished.

  Alerted by the warnings fed around the walls, Kard dashed to the North Gate, the sweat pouring from his tired body but his spirit unbowed. Shouting encouragement as he went, he arrived next to Barras, made his assessment and leaned close to the old elf negotiator.

  “This is it, my friend,” he said. “When the time comes, I'll take you to the Heart.”

  Barras nodded. “But let's delay that time as long as we can, eh?”

  Kard smiled and began barking orders to his men, standing beside them as they fought to stave off the endless tide of Wesmen. With reinforcements flush with victory over the Dordovans, there came more ladders, a second battering ram and an increase in the intensity of the battle.

  In four places Wesmen had gained the walls, their ferocity driving back the defenders. Too close for spell assault, the walls had to be cleared by men alone and, as the Wesmen surged, it quickly became clear there weren't enough.

  Yelling for reserve teams, Kard flailed about him, his unmistakable frame and voice a rallying point for his men. In tandem, Barras and his mages poured FlameOrb and HotRain on to the clamouring masses waiting below. But while the death toll was awful, they merely regrouped and came again.

  “The gate!” yelled Kard. “Hold the gate!” As if to reinforce his words, the powerful thud of a battering ram shuddered through the stone of the north gatehouse. Immediately, spells arced out and down, but barely had the fires died than the scattered Wesmen were back on the ram, sensing victory.
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br />   From the south, the roar of attack grew as Wesmen forced further inroads on the walls and a woman screamed as one found his way to the inner courtyard before being felled by a townsman.

  The defence crumbled so quickly. Catapult rounds smashed anew inside the College, the ram thumped again and again into the North Gate, its ironclad timbers creaking, WardLocks fizzing and repair crews fighting desperately to reinforce it. A dozen wall breaches of varying severity had left the defenders ragged when Kard turned to Barras, wiping blood from his face.

  “Now is the time,” said the General.

  “No, we can hold them,” said Barras, eyes searching for hope but finding none. Kard gripped his arm.

  “No, Barras, we cannot. Now go. I will shield you.” The elven mage clasped arms with Kard, his face grim.

  “Goodbye, old friend.”

  “Do what you have to do,” said Kard gruffly. “I am a better man for knowing you.”

  But still a dead one, thought Barras. He ran for the stairs and as he did so, five mages detached themselves from the fighting and made their way to join him. They were the chosen whose task guaranteed their deaths but enshrined their memories forever.

  As he ran to the Tower, the calls of Kard ringing loud in his ears, the tumult all around him a muted roar, Barras scanned the southern ramparts for Kerela, smiling as he saw the High Mage pointing out over the city, directing spell and soldier alike. As if feeling eyes on her back, she turned and caught sight of Barras who slowed to a standstill. For a moment, the two elves stared at one another, every time they had shared passing between them.

  Barras felt a warm gentle ManaPulse bloom against his body. Kerela smiled, nodded slightly and waved. Barras returned the gesture then ran on to the Tower, drinking in everything and knowing he would never see any of it again.

  Lord Senedai sauntered among the ruins of the College while his warriors readied themselves for the fast march south. He'd known the boy mage would talk. Good with his magic but weak-willed under torture. It had been a bonus that he had been found weakened and in the infirmary. The others of the Council, old strong-heads, he'd simply put to death. It was the only way to reduce the danger. All except Barras. He had eluded them so far but then the College was vast underground—any coward could run and hide.

  But before he left Julatsa, Senedai would keep his promise. He would have the head of the elf negotiator. Only then would he ride after The Raven who held the weapon to win the war, the weapon to bring dragons to Balaia. The weapon that would fulfil the myth of doom for the peoples of the West. His bird was already flying to alert Tessaya.

  “Barras, where are you hiding?” Senedai was walking across the courtyard surrounding the Tower. His men marauded through the College; the cobbles were awash with the blood of mages. Their bodies littered the ramparts, the ground at his feet and the halls of their burning ancient buildings while their beloved people cowered under guard at the South Gate. For those who had so recently been released from the grain store the swift return to captivity was almost too much to bear and the weeping from men and women alike spoke everything about the mood of the surviving Julatsans. Crushed without hope of rescue. No one would come to save them now and every head was bowed in miserable submission.

  Their soldiers, brave in the face of overwhelming odds, would, those that still lived, be given the honour of choice. To die a warrior's death or take enslavement. For the townsfolk, no such honour would be bestowed. They would rebuild their city for their new masters.

  Senedai stopped walking. The answer to his question stared him full in the face. The Tower.

  It alone stood undamaged by fire and force of Wesmen. Any mages left, those not running scared in the catacombs, and he had no doubt there were some, were plainly hoping the Wesmen fear of magic would keep them away from the hub of the College. Wrong. The College was broken, the Tower now just another building awaiting clearance.

  Senedai smiled to himself. At least, that was the theory. The practice, as its unblemished stones testified, was very different. Every Wesman feared the power within a mage Tower but it was surely a power that had been lessened by the deaths of so many of its mages. He summoned half a dozen men to his side, dismissing their anxiety with a wave of his hand, so bolstering his own fragile confidence.

  “The College is ours,” he said. “Any inside are scared and beaten. Follow me and we will secure the ultimate victory.”

  Almost immediately on entering, the weight began to build. Senedai's men could feel it too. An oppressive atmosphere that pushed on the shoulders and neck, constricted the throat and shot lead through the limbs. It only served to heighten their unease and Senedai fought not to stutter in his stride and convey his own thoughts.

  The Wesman Lord feared having to search the entire Tower for his quarry but needn't have. Once inside and moving around the central column, he could hear voices coming from below, murmuring and chanting.

  He led his men down a short flight of stairs which hugged the outer wall. At the bottom of the stairs, a single door, outside of which stood a man whom Senedai recognised. The Wesman advanced, sword in hand.

  “Ah, the senile last line of defence,” he said.

  “And one that kept your gutless, brainless hordes at bay for twelve days,” said General Kard. “And I will personally see to it that you get no further.” Kard's sword was at ready but he made no move to attack.

  “This is a time for honourable surrender. The fight is over,” said Senedai.

  “How little you know.” Behind the closed door the voices rose in volume and pace, cut off sharply and were replaced by one; strong, confident, determined. Barras.

  “Get out of my way or I will cut you down,” snarled Senedai.

  “So be it.” Kard lunged forward, his sword flashing in the lamp light. It was a quick strike but his age and exertion told against him and Senedai was able to block it aside and return a stab Kard moved smartly to avoid. To either side of Senedai, his men moved to attack, axes falling simultaneously. Kard's sword diverted one but the other thudded into his shoulder, driving him to his knees.

  Kard's sword clattered to the floor and he fell back against the door, free hand clutching at his wound as the blood poured down his arm and chest. His eyes flickered and he gasped with pain. Senedai squatted in front of him.

  “You are a brave man, General Kard. But foolish. There was no need for you to die.”

  Kard shook his head but was unable to raise it to face Senedai. “Wrong,” he mumbled as his last breath rattled into his lungs. “There was every need.”

  At a gesture, one of the warriors pulled Kard's body to one side. Behind the door, the voice had ceased. The Tower shifted gently, dust drifting from timbers and stone.

  “The door,” snapped Senedai. “Quickly.”

  It was locked but an expertly placed boot had it shivering back on its hinges. Inside, six mages knelt in a circle in the centre of a room covered in books and parchments. Again the Tower moved, a more definite displacement this time. The sound of pottery breaking on stone was heard. The atmosphere of dread washed out into the corridor. Senedai stepped back a pace, his warriors more. The air was chokingly thick, deadening thought and muscle. Now the Tower shuddered, lamps fell from the walls and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the building. The Wesmen staggered; one fell, cracking his head against a wall; others exchanged anxious glances, tongues licking dry lips.

  “My Lord?” The plea was drenched in fear.

  “I know,” said Senedai through gritted teeth. He looked again into the room, straight into the eyes of Barras. The old elf smiled.

  “You can take our buildings and our lives but you can never take our Heart.”

  “You owe me your head, Barras.”

  “The deal has changed. Now I suggest you leave my Tower before it becomes your grave too.” He raised his arms above his head and shouted words the Wesman Lord could not understand.

  The Tower rocked violently, coving crashed down, timb
ers splintered, ceilings cracked and shifted, floors subsided. In front of Senedai's wide eyes, the chamber in which Barras and his mages knelt began to sink. Wood groaned and squealed against nails, stone and brick shattered like thunder. Everything vibrated.

  “Leave, Senedai. Leave my College.” The door whipped shut, thrust by an unseen hand. It thudded into the frame, crackling across its panels. Senedai turned to his terrified warriors.

  “What are you waiting for? Go! Move!” As if to hurry them on their way, a tortured groan of timber, brace and stone tore from the sinking room. The warriors turned and ran, Senedai hard on their heels, while the walls rattled around them, the dust filled the air and, one by one, the lamps and braziers guttered and fell, the darkness spreading up the stairs behind them.

  They burst back into the sunlit courtyard to join a circle of Wesmen staring up open-mouthed at the shuddering Tower. Tears ran up and down its length. Networks of cracks were scattered around it like carelessly woven spider's webs and, here and there, holes had been gouged in the stonework, the debris littering the courtyard.

  It was a sight that brought fear but ultimately cheers as the Tower of Julatsa collapsed in a tumult of tumbling stone, billowing dust and shattering glass. But, as the dust blew away and the echoes died to silence, Senedai turned and walked away back to his command post, knowing that what he had witnessed was far from the end of Julatsan magic.

  The march had been swift and proud, Darrick's cavalry at its head, Blackthorne and Gresse flanking the young General. Having dispatched three thousand back to Gyernath to help rebuild and defend the damaged port, Darrick organised his force, numbering just shy of eight thousand, into centiles each under a Captain. He built eight regiments from those centiles and each marched behind a mounted commander.

  The mood was determined and confident yet light for all that. Each part of the army had won important victories; the port defence had held Gyernath, Blackthorne and Gresse had stopped a force four times their size from reaching Understone and Darrick had aided in the sacking of Parve, destroyed a Wesmen supply line and had either burned or taken every craft he had found.