‘Tell me we won’t let this be destroyed,’ he said eventually.
‘We’ll save it or die trying,’ said Ilkar. Hirad looked at Ilkar, seeing that the determination that had bound him to The Raven for ten years had not dimmed.
‘Well, I have no intention of dying,’ said Hirad. ‘Tell me about our chances.’ He motioned that they should follow after Jatha and his men who had continued to the base of the stairway and were wading through a square of grass, their walk becoming a run as they approached the river and a set of crossing stones.
Calls of welcome from human mouths echoed across the Broodland and from a dozen small stone-and-thatch dwellings set in a hamlet close to the river came more of the Vestare. Children squealed with delight, men and women came together in embraces, splashing through the shallows to welcome home those who had been gone from sanctuary so long.
Laughter floated across the air but with it the sounds of crying and sorrow as those whose men had not survived learned of their loss. The mood broke quickly and solemnity returned. All faces turned towards The Raven as they, Styliann and the Protectors strode towards the river, crossing the same stones Jatha had danced across so recently.
‘Raven, welcome,’ he said. ‘Hirad, home.’
‘Home,’ agreed Hirad. He pointed towards Wingspread. ‘Sha-Kaan? ’
Jatha shook his head. ‘Wait,’ he said. His face cracked into a smile. ‘Eat? Drink.’ He clapped his hands and some of the Vestare scampered away, disappearing into their houses. He sat on some close-cropped grass and motioned his guests to do the same. Fruit and strips of meat were brought out on platters by some, while others brought pitchers of water and juice and carved wooden cups out of which to drink. From somewhere nearby, music from a set of pipes drifted across the air.
The scene and the atmosphere were idyllic but Hirad couldn’t forget why they were here. A handful of dragons sat on the ground outside, massive hulking bodies resting part in the river or on the flat rock, heads sweeping lazily to grab Flamegrass or the carcasses their Vestare brought them. They all ignored the arrival of the strangers completely. Most, he presumed, were flying around the rip, injured in melde-corridors or cavorting in the skies overhead. Sha-Kaan, he was sure, was inside Wingspread and he thought it curious the Great Kaan had not come out to greet them. But, as always, he would have his reasons.
‘Hirad,’ said Ilkar. ‘Before you speak to Sha-Kaan—’
‘Yes, our chances,’ agreed Hirad.
‘Or lack of them,’ said Ilkar. ‘And don’t bridle like that, I’m only being realistic. You need to know exactly how far we’ve got.’
Hirad tore at a piece of meat with his teeth, washing the food down with the pale green, sweet fruit juice.
‘You aren’t going to tell me anything good, are you?’
‘It’s not quite that bad,’ said Ilkar. ‘It’s just there are so many unknowables and guesses we’re having to make. But let me start at the beginning. Unknown, you ought to listen to this.’
‘I am,’ came the reply. ‘Thraun?’ The shapechanger moved closer to Ilkar. He had a cup in his hand but hadn’t taken any food.
‘The theory is relatively simple but, without definite parameters, the power of any spell we cast is going to be a guess. Educated, but a guess. What we have to do, and the four of us are strong enough to do it from beneath the rip, is form a mana lattice that binds with the edges of the rip. This is all based on Septern’s spells designed to border rips and contain them.’
‘So you’re going to effectively border this rip,’ said The Unknown.
‘Absolutely,’ said Ilkar. ‘And then we have to draw it closed. Now that would be reasonably easy if we only had one end to contend with but we don’t; we have a corridor and another end all of the same massive size. You all right with this so far, Hirad?’
‘Anything I don’t get I’ll ask The Unknown to explain when you’ve gone,’ he said.
‘Gone where?’ asked Ilkar.
‘Gone where you can’t hear me complaining how complicated you make things,’ said Hirad, smiling as Ilkar’s ears pricked.
‘Fine,’ said the elf mage. ‘Now, returning to reality for a moment, we’re sure that Septern must have opened and closed dimensional corridors and there is theory that discusses the weave, if you like, that is required to close a hole in interdimensional space. What we believe we have to do is set up what is best described as a mana shuttle which, anchored at this end of the rip by the border we create, flies down the corridor, looping through its sides to come out the other end and effectively pull the sides together, closing the rip and corridor on both sides.’
‘Can that be done?’ The Unknown took fruit from a platter offered to him and smiled his thanks at the woman serving. ‘I have to say, Ilkar, it sounds very far-fetched.’
Ilkar sighed. ‘It is. Look, we don’t know if we can do it, yet. The lore theory is there in Septern’s texts, Styliann and Denser are trying to link it to some Xeteskian dimensional theory and we do have a spell that will close a gateway.’
‘But it’s the shuttle bit, isn’t it?’ said Hirad.
‘Yes,’ said Ilkar. ‘It’s certainly an extension of the mana lattice we’ll make to contain the rip on this side but at the moment we’re guessing and that’s very dangerous.’
‘I don’t want to worry you but we don’t have the time for you to do anything else,’ said Hirad. ‘We have to cast this thing in the next day or so or it’ll be too late for the Kaan and you know what that means for Balaia.’
‘I am aware, Hirad, but we did always say it would be difficult.’ Ilkar’s eyes narrowed a little and his ears reddened. ‘Developing new spells isn’t easy, you know.’
The Unknown held up his hands for calm. ‘And bickering isn’t going to help. Now, am I missing something or can’t you cast the lattice that borders the rip this side, pull it closed, if that isn’t too simplistic, and then go back to Balaia and do the same in Parve?’
Ilkar raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘Lovely idea but we had to discount it. Even assuming we’d make it back to Parve from the Manse, it wouldn’t work. The power in interdimensional space is too great and you have to remember that the corridor would still be there, just with no second opening. We have to close the corridor too and the lattice is inherently unstable and wouldn’t survive to give us the time to reach Parve. That’s why we had to come here. We have to close the rip against the flow of the way it was made.’
‘So sum up our chances in a way I can understand,’ said Hirad, his plate still full but his appetite fading fast.
‘If Denser and Styliann can’t find any help in Xeteskian dimensional theory, we have next to no chance because we’ll have no idea of the forces operating beyond the rip. If they do, we’re still making a best guess at a mana construct brand-new to us all and will have no clear idea if it’ll work until it either does or doesn’t. It’ll require all our combined strength to cast from the ground anyway.’ He paused and looked at Hirad solemnly. ‘There is less chance of this succeeding than there was of defeating the Wytch Lords.’
‘Sha-Kaan isn’t going to like that,’ said Hirad.
‘Well, he’ll just have to live with it.’
‘Or die with it,’ returned Hirad, and he got to his feet, dusted down his trousers and leather and set off to Wingspread.
‘Who’d be a Dragonene, eh Unknown?’ Ilkar tried to smile.
‘Who’d be any of us, Ilkar,’ he replied. ‘Who’d be any of us.’
Chapter 32
They attack.
The thought pulsed around the Protectors in the dawn light. The Wesmen were advancing, their dogs and archers before them. This was no charge and Aeb questioned the tactic with his brethren.
Dogs in the vanguard, archers to weaken us, army to follow up.
As one, the Protectors brought their weapons to the ready, each masked man unsheathing double handed sword and battle axe.
We are enough to shield effectively. Aeb drove the id
ea around them. Concentration is everything. We are one. Fight as one.
We are one, fight as one. The mantra echoed around their minds bringing them the strength of the Soul Tank and the belief in their invincibility. They were ready.
From all sides, arrows flew and the dogs were unleashed. Their howls were drowned by the roars of the Wesmen. Think shield. They thought and the arrows bounced. The Wesmen roars faltered but the dogs drove on. Huge beasts, the size of newborn foals, their mouths thick with teeth, saliva dripping as they came. Another flight of arrows; no more than five pierced the shield and no Protectors fell. The dogs hit them.
They had counted seventy Destranas, all hungry for the kill but all fighting on their own. Those at the front of the charge leapt for neck, thigh or stomach but the Protectors saw every angle of attack. Aeb struck down with his axe at the skull of a dog that leapt at the brother next to him. Two more blades thudded into the beast’s neck and back. It died with a whimper.
Aeb, blade left lower quarter.
Aeb struck without looking, feeling his sword bite into a Destrana midriff. The thought had come as he sensed the animal, it was merely direction but it was all he needed. He pulled his axe clear to hammer it through the jaw of a third dog while his sword still skewered the terrified, crying animal on the ground to his left.
Around the circle the orders flew and the blades and axes followed them. Seventy dogs was too few by at least three hundred and those that didn’t run to hide behind the legs of their masters died without landing paw or fang on a single brother. Too slow, too obvious, too individual. It was why animals would never beat Protectors.
Quiet fell over the ranks of the army and their commander hesitated before ordering more arrows. Again the shield held and but one Protector took a wound in his thigh. He fell back to tend and direct until bandaged. Now the horns sounded and the encircled Protectors faced not a headlong charge but a careful, closed advance. Aeb could sense the nervousness as they advanced and pulsed his brothers to note it.
Their commander has no heart for this fight. We scare him. Seek those who command. Fight as one. We are one.
Fight as one, we are one. The second mantra echoed through their bodies. No thought was given to the overwhelming numbers who advanced towards them, only to the totality that was their being. The dogs were dead, their blood slicking the ground in the damp, drizzling morning. Their masters knew as never before that those first to the battle would die. It was inevitable.
As is victory. We are Given, we may not fail.
Lord Senedai fought to keep his mouth closed as he watched his war dogs slaughtered. Destranas were feared by all men, their ferocity and desire for the kill legendary. But these men, whatever they were, didn’t so much as flinch, only taking a pace back when it gave them a better angle to strike. They seemed to know where an attack was coming from before it came and, though the distance might have confused his sight, he could swear some of them struck without looking. Struck and hit. This was no wild flailing, it was ordered, accurate power.
And that scared Senedai more than anything else.
The dogs had raced on in tight howling packs and had died whining, their bodies chopped and twitching. Senedai dragged himself back to the immediate with the baying shouts of his men dying to echoes in the mist and rain. An uneasy, fidgeting quiet gripped his army. None of them had seen a single enemy fall. Now they looked to him for orders, his signallers ready, standing expectant to his left.
‘My Lord?’ prompted a Lieutenant. ‘We should not lose the impetus.’
‘I know!’ snapped Senedai, then calmed himself. ‘I know. Signal an advance from all quarters. Slow march. Let’s have them watch us massing right under their noses and fear what is about to overwhelm them. Front ranks only. Rear stand ready for my command.’
The flags went up, the horns sounded and the Wesmen advanced. Senedai’s heart thudded in his chest as he moved up behind the front ranks, shouting encouragement, exhorting them to keep a slow pace as if any near him desired to charge to certain death.
From the ruins of the Manse there was no reaction. The small force stood ready, blood dripping from swords and axes, masked faces offering nothing, bodies exuding controlled aggression. Behind Senedai, an order signalled more arrows. More waste. A flight of one hundred turned aside by the cursed invisible barrier. But there was no mage.
‘What in all the hells is going on?’ Senedai shouted, frustration burning hot. ‘Who are these men?’ he muttered under his breath, afraid again.
Forty paces from battle, the spirit chant began. Rumbling from the front lines in every direction, it rolled over the Wesmen army, setting Senedai’s skin tingling and refreshing his flagging confidence. It was the song to greet enemy steel, the song to accept death like a warrior if it should strike and the song to bind the spirits to the Wesmen nation forever.
Over and over, the growled words, only twenty in all, emitted from the lips of the army, rising to a cacophony that drowned the clashing of weapons and the tramp of many thousands of feet. At the last, the march broke, the tempo of the chant increasing, driving the warriors on. In front of them, the masked force moved, axes raised, swords pointed to the ground, prepared to repel as the Wesmen wave broke over them.
Threat hung heavy in the morning air, lowering dark with the clouds above that dispensed a light drizzle but promised a downpour.
Darrick had marched his army directly towards the waiting horde, demanding order and speed. He knew they would be watching, just as his scouts watched them, and he needed the Wesmen to report determination and confidence. So he drilled them as they marched, the cavalry marking time ahead, never once breaking stride.
In open fields a little over a mile from where Tessaya’s army camped, he brought the column to a halt. A single horn blast was followed by a tumult of orders from a hundred mouths and each man, elf and mage knew what they had to do. Defensive positions were set, a perimeter established, the command post erected and regimental lines drawn up. Mages stood by sword guards, elven eyes scoured the Grethern Forest to the south and the bare rises north. Fire and cess pits were dug, tents sprouted, animals were picketed and guarded, the quartermasters’ and armourers’ wagons emptied and stores and forges were in operation less than an hour after their arrival.
Darrick turned from the preparation with a smile tugging at his lips. ‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘when you consider that less than a thousand out there are seasoned campaign soldiers.’
Blackthorne chuckled. ‘Well, Blackthorne farmers and wine-growers have always been practical.’
Darrick looked hard, unsure if Blackthorne was joking. Gresse confirmed it for him.
‘And the victorious defenders from Gyernath just stand and admire, eh Blackthorne?’
‘They’ve been allowed to assist my specialists,’ said Blackthorne, his eyes twinkling beneath his dark brows. Darrick cleared his throat.
‘It should give the Wesmen scouts something to think about,’ he said.
‘I expect Tessaya will be scared rigid when he hears of the construction efficiency of Blackthorne’s vintners and vintagers,’ said Gresse. Darrick scowled at the levity and Gresse’s expression hardened. ‘Sorry, General. Tell us when you plan to ride in?’ He sat on one of the six chairs unfolded around the map table in the command tent.
‘We’ll have lunch, then I will raise the parley flag and leave here with a small guard of a dozen cavalry.’
‘And us,’ said Blackthorne.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Darrick frowned and again looked hard at the tall stern Baron. He saw no hint of humour this time.
‘I know Tessaya. He buys, or rather bought, my finest wines. He might listen to me,’ said Blackthorne.
‘And you, Baron Gresse?’
‘I will ride with my friend and you to add support and gravitas. Tessaya must not see this as merely a gambit. A deputation of three senior Balaians might sway him.’
Darrick nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll not say I couldn’t
use the support. Tessaya will be a difficult man so far into our lands.’ He felt a relief he knew he shouldn’t as a General but there was some physical aspect about the two Barons that inspired confidence. He saw it as a matter-of-fact determination to succeed, a refusal to accept the possibility of defeat. Surely it was what their people saw and why a handful of soldiers and an army of farmers could have such a bearing on the war.
‘Will he respect the parley flag?’ asked Darrick.
‘Yes,’ said Blackthorne immediately. ‘And not because he is particularly honourable. But he is an intelligent man unwilling to sacrifice his people if he can secure victory by negotiated surrender.’
‘But given to poor judgement at crucial times,’ said Darrick. ‘For instance, he could have faced us at Understone in a far stronger position. I believe he panicked.’
‘Possibly,’ said Blackthorne. ‘But don’t assume he’ll err again.’
Two hours later, the three men rode from the camp, their guard in echelon formation behind them, a single rider ahead carrying the green and white halved flag to indicate peaceful parley.
A quarter of a mile from the Wesmen army, they were flanked by thirty Wesmen axe-bearers who trotted beside the horses, melting wordlessly out of the forest. It was an honour guard and Darrick paradoxically felt a little easier than when they were alone though he indicated that the two mage riders maintain their shields.
Shortly afterwards, they reached the top of a rise and the Wesmen were below them. Covering an area probably a quarter of a mile on a side, the camp sprawled across pasture and cropland. Dozens of fires burned into the damp early afternoon sky, banners and standards hung limp and tents hugged the ground in carefully spaced order. Forsaking their trademark towers and stockades with time against them, the Wesmen instead had mounted a heavy border presence of warriors. A sneak attack on this camp would not work and Tessaya wanted them to know it.
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