The Raven Collection
Page 49
‘How far?’
‘We need to leave now or the mages will not get enough rest. And we need to leave quietly or the Wesmen will hear us.’ Blackthorne felt himself coming alive. They were going to die but they were going to go down in a river of blood and mana fire.
‘We can be set by an hour after dawn.’ Gresse put out his right hand, which Blackthorne shook heartily.
‘The Gods will see us to paradise,’ said the old Baron.
‘And the Wesmen and Pontois to hell.’
It was late evening and The Raven had arrived on the borders of the Torn Wastes. Dark cloud dominated the sky and a chill wind picked at branches, loose vegetation, cloak and hair. Like Selyn before them, they were to the left of the west trail guard post on the edge of the forest, looking out seven miles to Parve, the beacon fires atop the pyramid burning bright in the night sky. But unlike the Xeteskian mage spy who had provided crucial intelligence concerning Wytch Lord power, The Raven were not looking through a sea of Wesmen tents.
Thraun had brought them through the woodland surrounding the Torn Wastes without error, and they lay a quarter of a mile from the trail, their horses quietened under a command from Denser and marshalled by his mount. The Wastes themselves stood largely empty. Here and there, camp fires ate into the night, but they were sparse. The vast majority of the Wesmen force was now outside Understone Pass, or nearing it.
But the atmosphere this close to the City of the Wytch Lords was charged with dread triumph. It oozed from the ground and carried on the air, pervading every sense and choking the heart. Standing and staring at the beacon fires, hearing the noise of Parve on the wind and feeling the cold against his cheeks, Hirad couldn’t shake the feeling that they had arrived too late. But he couldn’t afford to believe that. Not while people fought and died to save the lands he loved, not while the Wesmen marched to destroy his cities and not while The Raven still stood tall.
A day and a half’s hard riding had brought them within sight of their goal, and while the ride had taken its toll on all of them, Jandyr’s condition was giving Erienne cause for great concern.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Denser. ‘It’s seven miles to the pyramid from here. One gallop and we’re there.’
Hirad, standing next to him and leaning on a tree, couldn’t help but smile. ‘I wish it was so simple,’ he said. ‘Wesmen perimeter defence, Shamen attack, a square full of Acolytes and a tomb full of Guardians.’
‘Well, you can always dream,’ said Denser. ‘Seriously, how do you assess the defence?’
‘Just as I described,’ replied Hirad.
‘And too much for The Raven alone,’ said The Unknown. ‘Even if Jandyr were fit, our chances of reaching the pyramid and casting the spell are negligible.’
‘How is he?’ Denser addressed himself to Erienne. The Dordovan mage looked up and held out a hand. Denser helped her up and the two stood, arms around each other’s waists. The Raven gathered around Jandyr, who was lying unconscious under Erienne’s latest desperate WarmHeal. Thraun stood by his head, with Will crouched by his friend, keeping his brow cool with a water-soaked cloth. Even in the sparse light of early night, the elf’s pallor was plain and unhealthy, great dark ovals were around his eyes and his lips had lost their colour.
‘Not good,’ said Erienne. ‘Not good at all. I’ve cleaned and redressed the wound. Thraun and I bound it very tight this time including his left arm, so he’ll have very restricted movement. The spell has knitted the muscle in his shoulder and is speeding the skin regeneration, but the riding has really hurt him. I’m afraid the SenseNumb stopped him realising the wound was becoming infected and he has a light fever. I can try a SurfaceMeld, but after that, I’m spent.’
‘But he’ll live?’ asked Hirad.
‘So long as he’s not made to gallop seven miles to a nearby city and then rushed into a pyramid to face the waking dead, yes.’ Erienne’s lips turned up at the corners.
Hirad thought briefly. ‘How tired are you, Denser?’
‘Very,’ replied the mage. ‘As are we all.’
Hirad looked to Ilkar and The Unknown. Both nodded.
‘That settles it, then,’ said the barbarian. ‘The salvation of Balaia will have to wait until morning.’
‘And what then?’ asked Will. ‘How can we do it alone? You heard what The Unknown said, we can’t fight them all.’
‘We’ll do what The Raven have always done.’ Hirad moved to stand with Ilkar and The Unknown. ‘We’ll walk careful, fight clever and run wise.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
The Unknown replied this time. ‘It means, Will, unless I’ve gone badly astray, that we’ll walk our horses into the Torn Wastes perhaps two hours before dawn. If we’re lucky, we’ll make the City unchallenged and the odds will begin to swing. If not, we’ll fight where we have to and run where we don’t.’
‘But Darrick and Styliann?’ Will was frowning.
‘We can’t wait for them,’ said Hirad. ‘We don’t even know if they’re coming. And you heard what Styliann told us. Understone and Julatsa will fall unless we can break the Wytch Lords. We’ve got to try or the battle will be lost.’ He walked over to the smaller man and crouched by him, boring the look into his eyes that had fired The Raven so often.
‘This is it. It’s down to us and we’re going to do it, I can feel it.’ He stood and spread his arms wide. ‘We’ve got this far and we’ve all lost those we loved. We can’t, I can’t, let that go. It’s payback time.’
Chapter 32
Dawn on Balaia’s day of judgement broke with fire in the sky. White fire.
It scorched along Understone Pass’s hastily erected stone and wood defences, which rose half the height of the pass entrance. They had been built to repulse catapult, sword and spear, the pathways running behind them packed with archers. But there was no defence against the white fire. It picked and chewed at the stone, while defenders, having shot their arrows, scrambled for safety.
Twenty Shamen, magically and hard-shielded, stood silent and tore the walls down. But this time the defenders were ready for them, and as the walls came down, two thousand foot soldiers raced from the breach, protective mages keeping pace behind them.
Caught admiring the handiwork of his Shamen, Tessaya could only stand and watch as they and their bodyguards were cut to pieces before Wesmen warriors could get anywhere near them. He ordered battle joined and blood and noise filled the air.
Their initial mission accomplished, the pass defenders fell back in orderly formation, forming a tight half-circle around the entrance to the pass. From within, and beyond the range of the Shamen who walked behind the sea of warriors, bolts and stones from low-trajectory catapults and heavy crossbows thrummed overhead, dealing devastation to the rear of the Wesmen lines. FlameOrbs and HotRain lashed into the invaders, either flaring over shield or, where it broke through, spewing flame across the ground and over defenceless bodies. The stench of flesh and the pall of smoke stung the eyes.
The defenders’ lines were holding. The generals of the pass kept a heavy presence of defensive mages covering the swordsmen outside, and they fought hard, knowing the line could not be flanked. They fought from wall to wall and nothing could get behind them. In front of them, better than thirty thousand Wesmen waited to take their chance. For the defenders it wasn’t a question of winning; it was about buying time.
Tessaya watched from his vantage point, admiring the fighting spirit of the defenders and seeing his people die from sword, spell and missile in numbers he had not expected. But, unlike the massacre caused by the water spell, this sight held no fury for him. This was true battle and his men fought and lived or died bravely. He turned to his generals and Shamen.
‘Comments?’
‘They can hold us until their reserves of mana stamina run low,’ said a Shaman, an old man happy to observe and advise. ‘Their overlapping magical shields are effective but draining. If we are patient, we will break through.’
‘And we cannot afford to give them rest,’ said Tessaya. ‘We can win by wearing them down man by man, but that is unacceptable.’ He gazed at the entrance to the pass, his eye tracing the arch which rose some thirty feet above the battle ground, its rock hewn back so long ago when it was believed the two peoples could genuinely live in peace. He smiled as the solution presented itself. ‘I think it’s time we widened that arch. Raised the roof a little, don’t you think?’
‘Five Shamen could do it,’ said the old man, catching Tessaya’s train of thought.
‘See that it is done,’ said Tessaya.
The message was passed swiftly to the front lines and the quintet of casters gathered in the centre of the battlefield, a zone of calm in the swarming mass of warriors. Shields were raised over them and, with the noise of battle deafening in their ears and with boulders and bolts slicing the air above their heads, they cast the spell to change the course of the fight for Understone Pass.
The white fire lashed out, catching the top of the arch. It fizzed and crackled away, licking the rock either side and well into the pass itself. The rock glowed and shone, the Wytch Lord spell sourcing every crack, fissure and weakness. It poured down the side walls, dislodging chips and dust as it went, and raced here and there along the roof twenty paces in. The Shamen shut off the spell, the horns sounded a retreat and the Wesmen disengaged, shouting their hate and leaving their dead.
It began with a rumble that seemed to come from deep within the mountains. The arch shook, the walls shivered, the roof undulated and then the whole collapsed. Great boulders of rock fell from left, right and above, spreading panic through the defenders. Some ran inside, others for the slopes either side of the pass entrance, but most just stood as the ground juddered under the pounding rock that collapsed along a fifteen-yard stretch, destroying everything beneath it. Men, defences, catapults, all fell victim to the deluge.
In front of the pass, the Wesmen scented victory and yelled new battle cries of triumph at the floundering defenders. Dust filled the air, shards of stone lashed away into the gloom, cutting down those who had escaped the initial collapse, and then, as violently as it had begun, the fall ceased and all that was left was an echo, rumbling away into the heart of the Blackthorne Mountains.
When the dust began to clear, the sight that greeted Tessaya warmed his heart. The defenders’ lines were broken. Hundreds lay dead or dying and those that survived blinked into the new light, leaderless and vulnerable. Because behind them, the pass had gone. Blocked almost from floor to roof by the rock. Nobody was going back, nobody else was coming out.
Tessaya smiled, knowing that his Shamen and warriors could remove the fall as simply as they had caused it in the first place.
‘Sound the attack,’ he said. ‘We’ve a lot of work to do.’ With a roar to cool the heart, the Wesmen set to work.
Selyn had died in Parve and Styliann would see the City returned to dust in revenge. He had stopped to gather his strength and to let his Protectors rest and bind the few wounds they had suffered, and now, with dawn broken, they were riding the Torn Wastes. His commands had been simple. Reach the city as fast as the horses would take them, and once there, kill everything western that moved and burn everything that didn’t.
He rode in the centre of his Protectors, knowing they would shield him and feeling the thrill of mana energy coursing through his body. As the sun rose, he saw the pyramid, its fires dulled by natural light but burning all the same, saw the miles of the Torn Wastes and saw a stand of Wesmen tents about three miles in to the right and in front of him. They would be first.
Ten Protectors moved ahead to take the encampment, wheeling their horses out of line with complete precision and forming two lines of five as they raced away to the right. The rest galloped on.
Reaching the tents, the Protectors reined in, dismounted and took the canvas apart, piece by piece. Wesmen hurried to defend themselves as the Protectors moved in a single line through the encampment, silent, masked, deadly. At its centre, they stopped in the ashes of the long-dead fire, waiting. In front of them, the Wesmen, around thirty of them, formed up, nervous, hefting blades and axes in unsure hands.
Ten Protector sword tips tapped the ground. Once, twice, three times. On the fourth, in response to unspoken command, they switched their swords to their right hands and swept the axes from their backs into their left and joined battle in a whirl of blurring steel.
The Wesmen had no defence. Where one thrust forwards, the gap he thought he’d worked was stopped by the blade of a different opponent. Axe followed sword, delivering death and dismemberment. The Protectors marched forwards, each one swatting one strike aside before delivering the next themselves, their wall of strokes complementing each other and giving the Wesmen no chance at all.
The shouts of the Wesmen as they fought and died were met with the eerie silence of the Protectors, who barely even breathed heavily as they advanced, slicing at torso, hacking at neck and stabbing at heart and head. It was all over in a couple of minutes, and without pausing to view their efforts, the Protectors left the Wesmen blood to soak into the earth of the Torn Wastes and rejoined their brethren and Given.
Styliann rode on, slowing only as the buildings of Parve neared through the rubble of the City’s outskirts. Half a mile from the first, he saw Parve’s defenders lined up against him. Wesmen by the hundred, Shamen by the dozen and, here and there, red-cloaked Guardians and Acolytes.
He nodded, satisfied. He could take them all. And every skull crushed and heart ripped out was another he would offer to Selyn and another The Raven would not have to face. A quarter of a mile from the defensive lines, he brought the Protectors to a halt, dismounted them and marched to the attack of Parve, FlameOrbs already forming in his mind.
Under the cover of pre-dawn night, The Raven made slow and steady progress through the Torn Wastes, elven and shapechanger eyes directing every hoof fall. The horses were walking, no need for a gallop until or unless they were challenged. They would arrive at the City as light broke the darkness.
‘Are they here?’ asked Hirad. He was riding with The Unknown at the head of The Raven. Behind them rode Ilkar and Thraun, eyes piercing the darkness, low voices warning of any potential threat, although in truth there was little unless they were seen. The Wesmen who had been camped there were marching on Julatsa or pounding the defences of Understone Pass.
Jandyr, his face pale and slick with pain, rode between Denser and Erienne with Will bringing up the rear. The elf had made good progress during the hours of rest. His wound had stopped bleeding and Erienne’s WarmHeal had been targeted carefully and successfully on the worst-affected muscles in his shoulder and back. His fever had broken and, although weak, he had elected to ride without sedation, determined to keep his mind clear in case of attack. Although, with barely enough strength to draw his sword, let alone wield it, he wasn’t sure he’d be of any use.
‘I can’t feel them,’ said The Unknown. ‘But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. If they are under instruction from Styliann, they won’t be open to me. Don’t forget, I’m not in the soul tank any longer and my ties are weak.’ He reached out again, not with his mind but with what he felt to be the centre of his being, yearning for the time of warmth he had spent with his brothers. He still felt an emptiness inside him, though his return to The Raven and their unconditional acceptance of him had eased his transition. But he didn’t think he would ever truly be free of the Protectors. He didn’t think he wanted to be. And so, he would forever class himself as an outsider.
He could feel nothing in return. He anticipated the weight and warmth of the crowd around him, hearing him and believing in him as he believed in them. But so far, he was alone.
The Raven rode on, and an hour later, with dawn throwing a half-light
across the Torn Wastes and their pace increased to a canter as they neared Parve, The Unknown felt it. A surge within him as his brothers mounted an attack. He could feel their togetherness, their combined strength and unswerving belief. He could feel their pleasure that he was there. He asked of them one small thing and they obliged. He turned to Hirad, his smile touching his eyes.
‘They are here,’ he said.
‘Where?’ asked the barbarian, automatically looking about him.
‘South and east of the City. They have come to help.’
‘Well, they need to get here fast,’ said Ilkar from behind them. ‘Look, dead ahead.’
The Raven reined in. The borders of the City were ringed with Wesmen. Not numerous, but enough.
‘Any ideas?’ asked Hirad.
But any answers were left unspoken as from the north, faint at first but gathering in volume, could be heard the sound of hoofs. Hundreds of them.
Baron Blackthorne stood on the top of a flat stone, Gresse beside him, and addressed his people. They had gathered at the head of Varhawk Crags, the Wesmen perhaps an hour’s march behind them. He gazed out into the early dawn light and nodded at what he saw. Scared, tired and hungry men and women but with the desire to save their land still burning fiercely in their hearts.
‘I’m not going to lie to you. What we are about to do could well see the death of us all, but I know that you are aware of the magnitude of the task we are performing. We have already set the Wesmen invasion back by two days. I want to make it a third before I die.
‘I want to thank each and every one of you for the unfailing effort you have made on behalf of Gresse, myself and Balaia, and I would consider no one a coward if they were to leave now, because this next fight is one in which I will not sound a retreat because we have nowhere left to go. I am proud to have ridden and fought with you and, should we win this war, you will all know my generosity for the rest of your days.