Tessaya felt the energy through every muscle as he ran. He sang too, his bass voice adding to the throng of sound that delighted his ears and would terrify all who heard it. The Wesmen were back on eastern Balaian soil and this time, they were here to stay, he could feel it.
They had camped for a glorious, dancing- and fire-filled night only six miles from the walls of Xetesk, their Destranas howling and hunting, the Shamen conferring the strength of the Spirits on everyone there assembled. No one fought, no tribe sought to gain advantage. Here was unification, here was an army that would be unstoppable.
Before dawn they had risen, their few hours’ sleep enough, their vigour undiminished. They had heard Tessaya’s words and then they had run again, faster than before, desperate that the head of every rise should show them a view of their goal.
And now it was in sight. They could see a few houses dotted below them, farmsteads that would no doubt serve them as they had served Xetesk before. They would not be damaged, their people would be unharmed because this now was the Wesmen way. Their effort had to be singleminded, nothing wasted.
The army gathered about two miles from the imposing walls and towers of the college city. They could see smoke rising through the haze of the morning, the sun shining down to pick out the seven spires that represented the college’s power base. It was an awesome sight and one that had filled Wesmen with dread and thoughts of the centuries of defeat.
Not this time. This time the fields outside the city were already soaked in Xeteskian blood and the ground was trampled and dead like the spirit within the walls. Tessaya climbed a nearby dead tree and stood out on a naked bough, one hand resting on the trunk. The expectant face of every Wesman turned to him.
‘My brothers of the tribes, we are come.’ The shouts were deafening. Tessaya held up his hands for quiet. ‘You see before you the mountain we must climb. You see high walls and solid gates. On those walls will be mages and archers and swordsmen. But they are few and we have archers of our own. No longer can they destroy us with their magic.
‘We will not try to storm the walls only to die. We will wait and we will kill and when the walls are clear, we will send our grapples onto the battlements and gateposts and we will climb. Harvest the trees you see here. The wood is still strong. We can use them as ladders, we can use them to batter the gates. Nature provides and the Spirits watch us and give us their blessing.
‘My brothers, the next few days will see the fruition of all that we have planned. It will see the deaths of our people avenged and it will see the Wesmen attain their rightful place as rulers of Balaia!’
Dystran watched from the south walls of the college. Half a mile away, the last handfuls of the Black Wings’ failed army were scattering. Dystran understood how they felt. He saw tree after tree come down. One hundred-foot oaks, thick-trunked pines, anything that had withstood the gales, it seemed, was being felled. And when they were done, the Wesmen ran towards Xetesk.
There were thousands of them.
‘You have got to be fucking joking,’ Dystran breathed.
Chapter 42
Chandyr had been badly stung by the defeat of yesterday. Nothing had gone according to his plan. Darrick had out-thought him, and Izack’s cavalry and the quite extraordinary elven warriors had comfortably outfought him. He had ridden back from chasing away the cavalry to find carnage by the gates. He had a hundred men dead or wounded, fifteen of them mages, while his charges had taken down three elves and one panther.
He knew they were good, but frankly he hadn’t thought them that good. However, the ten man patrols he had sent through the city to search for them had been lost and now he faced the gates again with his men demoralised, reduced in number, while the same faces stared down at him.
But today would be different. Today, his cavalry was ready and split around the college. He didn’t care how quick an elf was, a galloping horse was faster, more powerful and would trample them without mercy. So he had told his men that they should not fear. That setbacks were a part of war. He told them that their efforts had not been in vain and that the enemy could not cast and the gates were weakened. And he had told them that the allied forces chasing them had been destroyed.
He hoped fervently that last statement was true. The fact was, no one knew for certain. The spell had been cast but there were no reports of its effects. Still, if lie it turned out to be, at least it kept his men facing the right way. And Chandyr wanted to be inside the gates by midday.
He ordered the attack. Same two fronts as yesterday, same weight of mages but this time, there was little backup. Around the walls, his loose mages sent HotRain into the air to fall on the unshielded defenders, driving bowmen from the walls and allowing his mages more comfort to link, to concentrate and to cast. FlameOrbs battered the gates, ForceCones heaved against the timbers and Earth-Hammers undermined the foundations.
Again and again, the spells struck and the defenders seemed to have no answers. Few arrows came and, critically, no spells at all. He watched from his horse, knowing the tide was turning. He ordered DeathHail to strike the battlements and saw men and elves die. He demanded another EarthHammer from every mage in the link and at last the gates shifted.
He knew his mages were tiring but surely they could make the breach. Another FlameOrb, the size of his house in Xetesk crashed into the timbers and this time he could see the flame take hold. His soldiers roared in approval.
‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘One more, the bindings are failing.’
And he knew it was true. Already men were running from the walls, no doubt to take up defence in the courtyard beyond. Only The Raven still stood in the gatehouse, smoke billowing across their faces. They were the factor that concerned him most. While they still stood, the Julatsans would not break, and so far his attacks on them had come to nothing. Worse, they had even found time to kill familiars, leading him to keep the rest back. He couldn’t afford the cost in mages.
The ForceCone swept towards the gates. He could hear the flaming timbers protesting, the weaker of them cracking. He saw the gates buckle and one of the great iron hinge braces snap. But still they stood.
‘Again,’ he ordered. ‘Again. Stand ready. Captains, have your men stand ready!’
Across the courtyard his companies formed up. Moments away. He was just moments away.
A shout to his right caught his attention through all the noise, flame and smoke. Men were pointing into the sky. He followed their arms. He saw it too, watched it grow larger and larger, great wings scooping back the air, powering it towards them. He had believed them all dead but it was not so. A chill gripped him. Dragons were friends of The Raven.
‘Change target!’ he yelled to the mages. ‘Right and up. Quickly!’
He saw it in their faces when they turned. Their concentration was gone. The dragon stormed in, its bark eclipsing all other sound. It was huge. Dear Gods, it could take them all. He fought down his panic and tried to calm his horse, which bucked beneath him. Men were beginning to break from their formation. Arrows had started coming again from walls suddenly full of elven archers. Men were dying. His men.
‘Hold!’ he screamed. ‘Hold! Mages FlameOrb. Hold!’
His horse reared and he was flung backwards from the saddle, crashing heavily into the ground. He fought himself groggily to his knees and saw, through the smoke from the gates, his mages bending their heads to cast.
Sha-Kaan had rested in the cool of a cave high up in the Blackthorne Mountains, far from the prying eyes of man. He had hunted well and the chill over his body in the cave had been a welcome counterpoint to the warmth of the sun. It had eased some of the aches of the long flight and worked the stiffness from his wings. Now he was ready to go home.
Hirad Coldheart’s mind, however, was not calm. The battle at the college had been sudden and brutal and he had begged one more night for Denser to be fit and able to cast. Sha-Kaan had grumblingly consented. After so many years, one more night would make little difference.<
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However, the folly of that decision was as clear as the dawn light that had flooded his resting place. The enemy had attacked ferociously the next morning and the outside defenders, the elves and cavalrymen, had not struck back. He did not know why, nor did he care. All he knew from his briefest of contacts was that Hirad and therefore Denser, were in great danger and he would not die because they were killed while he waited uselessly.
And so he flew, Hirad’s protestations loud in his mind. He flew low and fast feeling the wind rushing past him, his wings strong and his talons flexing. He had no fire and he would not need it. If he could drive them back it would give him the time he needed for Denser to cast for him. And much though he wanted to stay and help The Raven, he had to return home. The birthings were imminent but, more than that, he had to assess what damage the Xeteskian dimensional spell-casting had done to the space between. He had felt another casting this morning and their lack of awareness was rupturing the boundaries.
Sha-Kaan kept the thoughts of home fresh in his mind. The scents of the Broodlands, the calls of his Brood and the Vestare who supported them so selflessly. The feel of the warm, damp air over his scales, the taste of the flame grass and the embrace of the clouds. Today he would return to experience it all or he would die on Balaia.
He saw the spells pounding the gates on one side and a section of wall on the other. He saw scattered elves trying to pick off targets and others lying where they had been hit by spell or bow-fire. He saw the first enemy look around and the mass of faces that followed the inevitable shout. He saw them lose their discipline and some start to run. He barked loud, the sound splitting the air, and he dived.
Driving in, wings swept back and away to present the smallest target, he could make out mages in a group, sitting quite still. He knew their plan. Arrows flicked past him, any that struck bouncing harmlessly from his scales. Those men could not hurt him. He barked again, his jaws wide, sucking in the air. He closed them with a snap that could be heard a mile away and plunged in, seeing the spell released.
It was a ball of blue flame, bigger than his head and streaming smoke behind it as it rushed towards him. He let it close then unfurled his wings, the sudden bite on the air slowing him and giving him dramatic lift, sending him soaring above its trajectory.
He arced gracefully in the air and came in again. Below him, most men were running for cover but the mages, now split into several groups and defended by the most courageous, were steadfast. Barrelling in just above the rooftops, he swooped into the college square, his huge bulk seeming to fill one side of it completely.
He landed deliberately hard, crushing men beneath talon and body, sliding forwards and ripping up the cobbles, and using his wings to brake him and send him back into the air before he collided with the buildings the opposite side. He banked sharply and came in again, his bark echoing from every wall. He beat down, slowing, hind feet stamping down on more men, his neck jabbing forwards to snatch and crush mage after mage.
Sha-Kaan flung them at the ground, bit them in two and spat out the remains. He moved heavily across the ground, feeling the pin-pricks of swords. His fore-claws lashed out, ripping heads from shoulders and gouging great rents in chests and stomachs. Bodies were flung away and there was nothing they could do. He ran forwards and took off again, climbing hard, banking and turning for another pass.
Below him, men crawled or ran from the square. He had broken them. He trumpeted and dove again, swooping low and snatching another man from the ground. Hirad’s warning came too late and he hadn’t seen it. From around the corner of the college, came a torrent of hail, driven by a mana wind. He dropped the body and tried to climb but the hail raked down the underside of his body, tore into his wings and peppered his great tail.
Sha-Kaan howled in anguish, the pain biting into him, deeper and deeper. The mages from the other side of the college had been quick. Too quick for him and he had been blinded by his success. He had to climb away, to reach safety where he could see to his wounds. But the hail had damaged the wing membrane and it was weak. Too weak to withstand this atmosphere for long. The muscles at the roots were cut deeply and blood poured from him like rain.
He looked down. Only one place to go, only one hope remained. He angled sharply again and half flew, half fell into the college.
‘No!’ roared Hirad. He pushed past The Raven and began to run down the gatehouse stairs.
He knew where Sha-Kaan intended to land. He had felt the pain of the DeathHail strike as if it was his own. But he was unharmed while the Great Kaan was seriously, if not mortally, wounded. Weakened from his long years of exile, he was so vulnerable. Why had he not listened?
Hirad burst into the gateyard and ran up the wide pathway that crossed the entire college and that had as its centre point the Heart pit. The Al-Arynaar and Julatsan mages were gathering there for the second, and what would be final, attempt at the Heart raise. Denser and Erienne were with them, all of them looking into the sky at the stricken dragon trying to control his fall.
‘Get out of the way!’ he yelled as he ran. ‘Clear the area. Move, move!’
He was waving his arms frantically and it took an age for them to see him. When they did, they began to run, heading for cover in the refectory, the infirmary, the lecture theatre or any long room that was close enough. He saw Denser shepherding Erienne to safety and breathed again, not slowing his pace.
Sha-Kaan took the roof off the lecture theatre, his hind legs ripping through stone, wood and slate, bringing half the building tumbling down. The impact drove him up a few feet before his wings folded and he crashed to the ground, legs giving way, sending him rolling and bouncing over the Heart pit. His tail bit through the frontages of both refectory and infirmary, striking stone, his neck was coiled in to protect his head as he rolled and eventually he slid to a stop, his back hitting a long room with a shuddering force that bowed the stone.
Behind him, dust billowed into the air and Hirad ran with a hand over his mouth and the other trying to keep the grit from his eyes. He was half blinded but he could see the heaving mass of Sha-Kaan and the neck still moving, dragging his head around to fix on his Dragonene.
Hirad slithered to a halt by his head and looked into a slowly blinking eye. He didn’t have to ask after the dragon’s condition, he could feel everything. Sha-Kaan couldn’t shield the agony from him. The spell had blistered him where it struck, the cold hail prising up scales that had torn free when he crashed. He seemed to be bleeding from every part of his body.
Hirad placed a hand on the dragon’s head, fighting back panic. Around him, he could hear running feet and cries from those who had sheltered in the wrong places. He sent a short prayer that few had been badly hurt and turned his full attention to the ailing beast.
‘It was not my best landing,’ said Sha-Kaan, his voice choked and pained. ‘It was the landing of a newly weaned birthling.’
‘This is not the time for jokes,’ said Hirad. ‘You’ve got to hang on.’
‘You have told me that there was always time for jokes,’ responded Sha-Kaan.
‘Not now, not now,’ said Hirad. ‘What can I do? Gods, but you are a mess.’
The startling blue eye blinked very slowly, the lid seeming to struggle on its way back up. ‘There is little you can do,’ he said. ‘I have overstayed my welcome in your dimension.’
‘So we’ll send you home. Now,’ said Hirad, turning. ‘Denser! Denser get over here!’
‘Hirad, I don’t think I have the strength to get up on my feet, let alone fly inter-dimensional space back to Beshara. Keep your mage’s strength, you need it more than I.’
‘No way,’ said Hirad. ‘No way. Hold on.’
He felt the surge of pain that ran up and down Sha-Kaan’s body. Ribs were cracked, wing membranes torn, neck sprained and tail broken. He turned and opened his mouth to shout throught the dust cloud that still swirled around the Heart pit.
‘D—’
‘I’m here,’ sai
d Denser, running up, Erienne with him. ‘Oh dear Gods, is he all right?’
‘Of course he’s not bloody well all right! He’s dying.’ Hirad swallowed. ‘Please Denser, it has to be now. We won’t get another chance. Before the Xeteskians get themselves reorganised. Please.’
But the Xeteskians were already reforming. Darrick was issuing orders and a quick glance told him that the next spell against the gates was only moments away. The General himself was clearing the gatehouse and a defensive line was in position beyond any backwash when the gates gave way.
‘Don’t do it, Denser,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘Finish what I started. Keep them away. Raise the Heart. I will wait.’
The eyes were closing.
‘Don’t listen to him, Denser, please.’ Hirad grabbed his shoulders, shook him while he spoke. ‘We could all die here. It looks like we will. But if there’s one we can save, we can’t miss the chance. Sha-Kaan is that one. For everything he has done. Please.’
Denser nodded. Hirad dragged him forwards and kissed his cheek.
‘Don’t—’ began Sha-Kaan.
‘Now you listen to me, Sha-Kaan,’ said Hirad, rounding on him. ‘You are not going to die here. I promised that you wouldn’t and I keep my promises. You cannot let it end like this. You have work, we have work and yours is on Beshara, leading the Brood Kaan.
‘You’ve had your rest and now is the time to roll back on to your feet, test your wings and be ready. Got that?’
Sha-Kaan’s nostrils flared. ‘Frail human, I am not so weak I cannot snuff out your life.’
Hirad grinned. ‘That is what I like to hear. But you’d better be standing up first or I’ll outrun you. Denser, make sure whatever it is you open, it is right in front of his face.’
‘No problem,’ Denser’s voice was faint with concentration.
‘Hirad!’ Darrick’s voice carried to him. He could see the General running over.
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