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 crossroads where a narrow alley crossed the main street. Behind their somewhat bemused defensive line, Wesmen poured across the street, heading north towards 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 backwards. 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 towards 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 towards 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 outwards 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 towards 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 a
gain and again, Erienne scattering HotRain to disrupt the Wesmen charge and buy precious time. And as they approached pockets of defence 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 towards 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.
‘Close the gates,’ called Hirad as they neared and the gatemen obliged, The Raven squeezing through the gap they left. The great iron-bound wooden gates clanged shut, WardLock fizzed across the wood and the last arrows thudded in harmlessly, their impact muted by the thick timbers.
Hirad set down the child who clung to his leg bawling, his mouth wide, terrified, eyes streaming tears. The Raven warrior wiped and sheathed his sword, feeling the gazes of his friends on him, their mouths turning up, smiling through their gasps for breath. He shrugged and patted the boy ineffectually on the head. The volume of his cries increased.
‘You’re safe now,’ Hirad said. ‘Quiet down.’
Denser landed close by, Erienne tumbling from his grasp to snatch the toddler from Hirad’s leg, holding him to her chest and patting his back, his arms thrown around her neck.
‘Do you know nothing?’ she asked him, but there was admiration in her voice, not anger.
Hirad smiled. ‘Not a great deal,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ He looked about the College courtyard. It was teeming with bewildered but relieved city folk, some of whom had the presence of mind to thank their rescuers before being ushered away by College guards anxious to clear open spaces at risk from projectile attack.
Above The Raven, who leaned against the walls, the spell barrage had ceased and outside the Wesmen clamoured, kept back for now at a safe distance, wary of magic. But soon, the false calm would be shattered and already men had fought and mages had spent themselves and it was not yet full dawn.
And before they could join the battle, The Raven had texts to find but, more importantly, a duty to perform. One that wouldn’t wait.
Hirad indicated the infirmary.
‘Come on, Raven, we have a Vigil to observe.’ The mercenaries walked solemnly across the College courtyard. Of Thraun, there was no sign.
Chapter 26
Styliann felt a tiny pang of sorrow for what he had led the Wesmen into.
The Protectors had run on, indefatigable, resting only when the Wesmen behind them had to pause, and pushing on before their pursuers began again. Throughout the chase, the Wesmen never fell back by more than a few hours and Styliann was impressed by their sheer stamina and determination.
But, with the sun at its zenith on the third day of the chase, he had met the Protector army he had summoned from Xetesk and now he waited. The scouts he had posted estimated the Wesmen force to be in the region of four to five thousand but, even though he had perhaps a tenth that number of Protectors at his disposal, he knew he would win, probably losing no more than forty of his charges in the process.
Styliann surveyed the land on which he had chosen to fight. He sat on his horse on a small rise to the right of his main force of Protectors. In front of him, the ground rose gently to a small plateau, on the other side of which lay a steeper slope up which the Wesmen would soon be marching.
To the left and right, tracking through areas of low crag and woodland, a dozen Protectors swept for forward enemy scouts while two groups of forty lay ready for the flanking order when battle was joined.
That left almost four hundred to take the core of the Wesmen battle front. They stood absolutely silent below the lip of the rise, waiting for the pulsed command from Cil to surge over the top. Should everything go as planned, mêlée would be joined before the Wesmen archers could string their bows.
Styliann had chosen a reasonably narrow focus for the attack. His front line would be no more than eighty warriors wide. Narrow enough to ensure he couldn’t be overwhelmed, wide enough to unleash the full force of the Protectors on an enemy who would be totally unprepared for what they faced.
He heard the Wesmen long before a silent order brought his Protectors to the ready, each with sword and axe in either hand. The tribal songs echoed from the slopes, filtered through the trees and rang into the clear blue sky on the gusting breeze. Ten tribesmen, making up a Wesmen advance guard, ran up the rise and over it, meeting swift, silent death on the blades of the waiting Xeteskian warriors before they had a chance to change their songs to warnings. The rest of the army were jogging, the pace and rhythm of the words told him that, driving hard towards their doom with victory on their lips.
Styliann smiled at the irony.
It would soon be time, and the former Lord of the Mount found himself irritated at the necessity of the fight to come. But he couldn’t have the Wesmen chase him to the gates of Xetesk, as they would undoubtedly do if not stopped before. He had no guarantee that he would gain access to the city immediately and any delay could quite literally be fatal. The ground around Xetesk was too open and even the Protectors would struggle against four thousand on the fields before the walled city. No, it had to be here and it had to be now.
Styliann turned to Cil. ‘Engage at will.’ Cil nodded and faced the ranks of his brethren, still with a secure hand on the reins of his Given’s horse. Styliann felt a stab of nerves through his confidence but he quashed it merely by looking again at his Protectors.
Not a word was shouted, no signals fanned through their ranks, no heads turned to await command. The thunder of footsteps grew, vibrating through the ground as the enemy closed. Individual voices could be heard through the mass of the song, whose intensity never let up as they ran. Four thousand Wesmen calling death to their enemies, beating axes against thighs, the dull thumping adding a grim beat to the song. On they came, a surge racing forward, ready to crash on their foe. They had no fear. It could be heard from every throat. They were the Tribes; the land would be theirs.
And hidden before them, the Protectors. One moment, they were standing stock still while the songs of the Wesmen and the sound of their feet rolled over them. The next, battle was joined in a ring of steel and a storm up the rise.
Wide-spaced, to allow the free wielding of both weapons, the Protectors ran mute into the unsuspecting ranks of the Wesmen, whose songs died in their throats, turning to warning and battle order as the first of their number dropped lifeless to the ground. The Xeteskian thralled force plunged in with extraordinary bru
tality, stopping the Wesmen in their tracks with a blistering barrage of axe and longsword. Screams filled the air.
Styliann watched dispassionately as his Protectors destroyed the vanguard of the Wesmen before they had a chance to break from their ten-abreast column, the mana shape for HotRain playing in his mind.
He rode further up the rise on which he was positioned, moving nearer the battle, and was greeted with the sight of his flanking forces wading in from the left and right. They scythed through the column, cutting off a section of perhaps three hundred Wesmen.
Completely surrounded by Protectors, they were simply massacred while the Dark College force simultaneously formed a new advanced front line, again precisely spaced but with a concavity to draw the Wesmen in.
The enemy leader finally managed to force order on his men. Commands ran throughout the panicked column, which broke and moved to attack on a broader front, meeting the Protectors head on. Behind the lines, archers peeled away and Styliann quickly adjusted his mana shape, moving from the lattice that was HotRain, to the tight spheroid that produced FlameOrbs.
Before the first volley of arrows was nocked, the ex-Lord of the Mount’s quartet of white-striated orange Orbs, each the size of a human skull, sailed over the closing battle lines to splash fire on the defenceless archers. Those not deluged, scattered, a pall of thick smoke rising from burning victims, cries of pain louder than the urgent orders to reform.
Battle proper was joined with the Wesmen in turmoil and fighting as much for shape as for their lives. They were scared. Styliann could see it in the set of their bodies and knew what they faced. Masks and polished steel. Death whose countenance they would never see, death that was silent and unstoppable.
The Protectors made no sound. No grunts of exertion as they struck, no battle cries, no screams from the injured and the few who died. Nothing. Just a wall of blades; flat, featureless masks and dark-stained leather, chain and plate. To Styliann’s ears, the sound of their weapons was almost musical, and he watched their inexorable advance, likening it in his mind to a macabre dance.
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