‘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 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 towards 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 pre-dawn 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 towards 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 afterwards, 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 round-table 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 whis
per, ‘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.
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 despatched 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 towards 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 rearguard 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.
The Raven Collection Page 93
