Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2)

by Jordan MacLean

  Damerien moved toward his horse and gestured, releasing him from silence.

  “Is there time, my Lord? If his men follow hard upon us, by the time your forces arrive, you will engage them in our very midst…”

  The duke shook his head. “You passed far to the north of my men two days ago by my scout’s reckoning.” His horse danced uneasily to stand so near the mage, and he quieted the animal.

  “So far south? That’s treacherous ground, my Lord.” The Guardian had dismissed the sharp rock and uneven terrain as nearly impassable when he’d first scouted for a route he would take with the refugees.

  “A necessary risk. I did not want to alarm your refugees or the horses by riding too near, nor did I want news of our preparations to reach Cragen by the main road.” He swung himself up into the saddle. “By now, my forces have already moved well eastward and should be coming upon Cragen’s men soon. We hope to force a retreat.”

  “A retreat or a frank rout, my Lord?” asked the mage, looking up at him. “I would not anticipate Cragen committing too many men to chasing a few mages across the bridge, not while he is still recovering from the last beating he took. The sight of your colors alone should give them pause.”

  Damerien looked away to the east and blew out a hard breath. “At the very least, we will slow them enough to allow you to reach Pyran.”

  “At the very least?” The Guardian wondered what Ildar was not telling him. “But––“

  “You must protect these few. All of them.” Ildar kicked his horse up. “Do what you must.”

  The mage looked out over his charges, enjoying for his own sake their last minutes of easy, optimistic innocence. They walked slowly, but laziness more than fatigue slowed their steps. They’d slept and they’d eaten ere they’d set out from their last camp. At least this was to their advantage.

  Odd that only moments before, he had congratulated himself on how near Pyran they were. In light of Damerien’s news, it seemed impossibly far away. How was he to move them all quickly, without panic, without using up all their reserves of power?

  To move them…or to organize them? These people were not warriors, but then, neither were they coddled schoolboys. Not only had they each and severally survived against Cragen and managed to make their ways to him in Byrandia, but he’d trained them well ere they’d set out.

  The difference was, the ambush could now be theirs. They knew the attack was coming, which meant they had the advantage. He looked around him carefully. They were still at least a day’s march outside Pyran, but the terrain and foliage as they neared the broadening into Syon could work to their advantage. If nothing else, it would certainly allow them to fall away by stages to Pyran. And once there…

  Do what you must.

  Just after dawn, he drew them all together and addressed them briefly. He did not dwell on the massacre of those in Byrandia, only mentioning it to underscore the very real danger that approached them. He told them what he expected if Damerien should fail to turn the mage hunters back, and he described his plan. They moved to act upon it at once.

  The mages formed up ranks, ready to turn and fight on a moment’s notice, and in that formation, they moved as fast as they could through the morning toward Pyran, many running to keep up. Some had asked if they might leave traps behind them, but the Guardian had said no. Most likely Damerien’s men would be the first over their path, and he would not want them to come to harm. Besides, they could not afford the delay.

  He saw no need to restrict their magic now that Cragen’s army was headed toward them, but still he had forbidden them to port to Pyran. Taking into account the position of the world and its spin, variations in altitude and placement…these were difficult calculations to make, magnified hugely with distance. They required a perfect knowledge if not direct sight of the destination. A single mistake, a misremembered layout of a building, or even simple bad luck, and the mage could find himself half buried in a floor or bursting through another person. Hard enough for a single soul who had at least seen Pyran, but to have half a thousand mages porting in blindly all at once would almost certainly result in tragedy. He simply would not allow it.

  At the same time, the youngest, the oldest, the infirm and the pregnant could not stay. The presence of these, though certainly a boost to their strength overall, would weaken the strongest in trying to protect them. He needed them away, but most of all, he needed their families and protectors to know they were away.

  He used his power to bolster the beacons he’d laid. Those who would not withstand battle could use them as guideposts along which to port themselves quickly under their own power, one after another, until they were close enough to run for the city gates. If he could have sent all of them that way, he would have, but the logistics and more importantly the dangers of moving a few score this way were not nearly the same as moving a scant half thousand.

  They had left right away, and now, this many hours later, the last of those sent should be within Pyran’s walls warning the city and bolstering its defenses. Now he and those who remained with him could focus all their energy on the battle, if any, to come.

  Trees, rocks, brush. The cover was sparse, but it was sufficient, and now they had the higher ground. That much, at least, stood in their favor. His hope was that Damerien and his men would appear on the horizon presently, having beaten back Cragen’s men just as they had in the Liberation, and the mages could go safely on their way. But while this was his hope, it was not his expectation.

  He would much rather have made it inside Pyran’s city walls and had their defenses to bring to bear, and indeed this was his original plan, but something in Damerien’s tone as he’d left had given the mage pause. They might be able to reach Pyran, but they might not. Should Cragen’s men come upon them at the wrong time, the near certainty of being trapped in the low marshes between here and Pyran had forced the mage to change his mind. This hilltop was readily defensible, and but for the sleety rain, they would be able to watch all approaches. From here, even the darkness of night would work to their advantage, should they be here so long. It seemed their best option until Damerien’s return.

  Damn the rain, he thought, peering into the dim afternoon light. Still it fell, and he saw nothing but half frozen muck and mire everywhere he looked. While the obvious line of approach from the east should have been visible below them, the rain obscured their view. Should Damerien fail to force a retreat, the mages would have little warning before Cragen’s force was upon them. Perhaps they might hear the sound of pounding hooves through the ground getting closer and closer, but with the storm, perhaps not…

  Marvelous.

  Maybe he should have kept moving toward Pyran after all.

  Still, he had chosen this spot and was content to make their last stand here if such it should be.

  “Guardian, I think I see something.”

  At least the boy had had the good sense not to shout it. The Guardian peered through the storm in the area the young mage pointed to, and at first he saw nothing but trees waving in the storm. Nothing disturbed the strands of power and the threads of probability across the darkness. In fact, they were remarkably still. But as he watched, his eyes widened. Here and there, dull glints of reflected gray light, almost lost in the icy rain, speckled the valley, and his scalp prickled. Those were not all trees.

  Where he had seen only brush and scrub and shadow in the gray afternoon light, he now saw the ground a-writhe as if with beetles. But they were not beetles. They were horses bearing soldiers.

  But were these Damerien’s men or Cragen’s?

  He thought to throw light over them, to read their colors, but stopped himself. As of yet, they did not seem to know the mages were near, and he had no intention of letting them know prematurely. “Take your positions and hold,” he called to his mages, and the command echoed through the lines.

  Feeble lightning crackled innocently, high in the clouds above the approaching army, a gift from one of his mages, seemi
ngly natural if short-lived light that would not give their position away. And in that brief light, he knew for certain these were not Damerien’s men, though that was all he knew. No time to reckon numbers, no time to see their armament. Very well, he sighed. This is what he’d been expecting, and his men and women of the Art were prepared.

  He set the first ranks to attack their archers hard and fast, then move straight to cover. Once the archers were subdued, the second and third ranks would have their leisure to fight the rest. After that, those who had survived would likely be too demoralized to organize themselves, and the mages could break off the attack and run for Pyran. “Conserve your power and do not underestimate the power of panic, for them or for ourselves.” His sleeves drew back on his arms as he raised them. “Strike on my signal.”

  “Guardian, as you will.” Those nearest him moved into position, and the others followed suit, spreading themselves in a line across the hilltop, with the reserve ranks behind them.

  Once the mages were in position, he dropped a firestorm into the trees and scrub just ahead of the the point where the movement was strongest and watched through the smoke and fire for the ones who would try to restore order. Those would be the commanders and officers. So far, he saw nothing but chaos swirling through their otherwise ordered ranks while the horses nearest the blaze flew into a panic and tried to break clear of the fires, disrupting the line behind them. The glow of the fire played over several ranks, and the Guardian frowned. How large was this mage hunting force, anyway?

  Meanwhile, over the heads of the archers, the rainstorm swirled angrily and froze hard, dropping razor edged shards of ice into them and their horses, slicing them to pieces. Beneath the hooves of those who still stood, the ground shook, then liquefied and boiled away, carrying many of the dead and the living away beneath the surface. Almost instantly in response, the armies spread themselves, skirting the area where the archers had fallen, and another body of archers moved in from the other side.

  “Fie,” the Guardian hissed, squinting through the rain at them, watching order replace chaos in their ranks seemingly from nowhere. “Someone has to be giving orders! Someone has to be in charge! Show yourself!”

  “Guardian, ballistae!”

  “Surely not. They would not bring…”

  But no, the girl was right. The Guardian could make out two ballista crews settling their weapons into position. He immediately threw explosive force into the joints of the wood that held them together, and they erupted in a shower of splinters that shredded through the men attending them. Two more beyond the ones he had destroyed erupted in white-hot flames, and in that light, he could see six more turning to target the hillside.

  Ten ballistae… But why?

  “Split the line on me, and get yourselves to cover north and south! Go!” called the Guardian. The mages complied with his order, but as he watched them, the ballistae did not change their alignment to follow. As he suspected, they were set to aim only at the broad hillside, in the general direction from whence they were attacked. Even if they stood in the open, the mages were effectively invisible in the dusky light until they attacked. “Watch the attack and get yourselves clear of it. Attack only after their bolts hit, then move directly back to cover!”

  The oversized bolts coming from the ballistae had been dipped in pitch and set ablaze, no doubt with the same intention as the firestorm he had set among them, more to illuminate targets and cause panic than to cause damage. The rain and sleet saw the bolts doused before they could quite catch the trees, but still, the bolts found several of the mages in cover.

  The other mages came forward and threw their power over the enemy below while a few saw to the wounded. To their credit, only those mages nearest the ballistae targeted them, pulverizing them instantly, while the rest focused their attention where they could do the most harm. Elsewhere, horses shrieked and threw their riders in the swarms of snakes around their hooves, and soldiers went mad with an unseen terror attacking those nearest them. Some of the mages, whom the Guardian imagined them to be more subtly minded, merely extended the energy of a simple touch into the mass of horses, which sent a circle of them bucking furiously, throwing and trampling their riders to death and spreading outward in panicked ripples through the ranks.

  But still the enemy came on, more and more and more of them. What manner of army would come undaunted into that kind of attack?

  The Guardian frowned and sent a crackle of sheet lightning rippling through them, as much to attack as to illuminate the field and show him what was coming. The silvery light sparkled over the ground below as it traveled, killing the riders nearest him outright and disabling many ranks behind. But beyond those ranks, the power faded, leaving only light, reflecting back a seemingly endless field of weapons, shields, siege machinery.

  Tens of thousands of soldiers and knights on horse, perhaps a hundred thousand just within view, were bearing down on their position. North, south…the army seemed bounded only by the sea on both sides and extended back as far as he could see. At the backs of their ranks came more ballistae, catapults, siege towers… This was no army of mage hunters. This was an invasion force.

  Cragen was invading Syon.

  This was not possible. The Guardian had seen the remnants of the Byrandian army whipped back to Byrandia like a pack of mangy graetnas during the Battle of the Liberation. Cragen could not possibly have raised a new force of this magnitude since then. Yet he had. But how?

  A ripple of genuine fear shuddered through his body.

  No. He would have time to speculate on these things if they managed to survive. Until then, these questions would only vex and demoralize him.

  Three of the younger mages moved off a bit to the south, combining their energies. The armies surged suddenly northward in a panic as a giant wave of water rose in the already irritable southern sea and crashed down upon them, carrying hundreds out to sea. Just as it was with those they’d lost to the firestorm and the archers lost beneath the ground, within moments, the gap in the invading army’s numbers had filled again. It was as if the enemy had lost no one. Meanwhile, his people were weakening with every attack they made. Within minutes, this army would achieve this hill. Not long after that, they would reach Pyran.

  The Guardian looked behind him, over the faces of the mages as they emerged to look upon the army that rode toward them.

  So many, and yet so few. His heart ached for them. He could not expect to save them, not here, not like this. More than that, he could not hope to save Syon if they fell here. If indeed this was an invasion, as he believed it was, Syon’s only hope, especially if Damerien had fallen, was to consolidate all their forces against this invasion. He had only one possible chance to save any of them and to save Pyran and possibly all Syon as well, and he did not have time for discussion.

  Do what you must.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated all his thought and energy, following the thin strands of power around him, binding them to his will. Anywhere was better than here, he told himself as he willed them all, and then himself, away. He only hoped the survivors would forgive him.

  If any of Cragen’s soldiers noticed the dull double flash on the hilltop or the sharp reports that followed, they made no sign. Those near the front rode on, steeling themselves for more magical attacks that never came. Those toward the rear were oblivious to the attacks they had missed and merely followed those ahead of them. No one broke stride, but rode unrelentingly onward toward Pyran.

  Ahead of them, hooves pounding through the trees and the scrub in the dark spaces between the hill and Cragen’s forces, Damerien saw the flash and heard the snap of air filling into a sudden void where the mages had been, and he smiled grimly. The mages were away now and safe––as safe as the Guardian could make them, in any case.

  “To Pyran, lads,” he called to the few who remained to him, “for Syon and for your lives!”

  The Guardian ran to climb the southeastern tower of Pyran’s city wall even
before his feet were firm on the ground. Along the battlements he saw stacked heaps of arrows and buckets of pitch. Good, so they were preparing. But below in the town, the people of Pyran still had no urgency in their movement, as if they still believed they were planning for a contingency that might not occur at all.

  “Sentry!” he shouted. “Ring the bell.”

  The young man glared at him from behind his bow. “On what authority?”

  “I am a Guardian, boy! Do as I say, and ring the damned bell! Do it quickly! Lives will be lost with every moment you delay!”

  The sentry considered a moment, then complied. The bell rang across the city at least as far as the next tower. Those who prepared looked around at each other, then quickened their steps. For some, there was excitement in their eyes, a chance at glory. For others, terror.

  A moment later, the easternmost tower took up the warning bell with great urgency, and within seconds the rest of the bells were clanging. So the army had crested the hill then, and the sentries had finally seen them.

  No sign of Damerien, he thought grimly. Surely the prince’s forces had been overwhelmed and destroyed, especially if they’d fought instead of retreating, as he was sure they must have. Ildar Damerien the Great Liberator. Ildar Damerien, who had reluctantly accepted the title, not of king but of duke over Syon for himself and his heirs…gone.

  Both Damerien and the Guardian had known that their victory in the so-called Battle of the Liberation was far from final and that Syon was by no means free. Cragen would not give up Syon, the beautiful jewel he’d stolen from the Dhanani, so readily. But they had kept their peace, letting the people celebrate their newfound independence, thinking that they had time yet while Cragen licked his wounds and rebuilt what he had lost. Plenty of time to secure Syon against him.

  Then again, upon word from Byrandia, Damerien had mobilized his own army at once, taking great pains to hide their numbers, and for what? To protect mages from mage hunters—mages who were already under the protection of a Guardian? Mages who were nearly to Pyran already? At the time, the Guardian had been nothing but grateful for the help, as devastated as he was by the news of the betrayal and murder of those he left behind, but now, having seen the army arrayed against him, he could not help but wonder if Damerien had known more than he’d let on.