But Rebraal had problems of his own. A large number of reavers, well into three figures, was rushing at the front wagons from both flanks, from ahead and, inevitably, from above. Taunting and laughing, they dove into the ColdRoom shell whose effects clearly lessened by the day.
‘Keep those horses forward. Blinkers tight!’
The lead wave swooped over the front wagons and drove on headlong.
‘Yniss preserve us,’ muttered Rebraal.
His sword in his right hand, his left squeezed Brynn’s shoulder and they were engulfed.
‘Brace!’ he yelled.
The cursyrd struck the wagon, more of them than he could quickly count. He placed his body in front of Brynn, turning his back to the impact and feeling claws rake his armour and teeth graze the top of his head.
‘Still here,’ said Brynn.
In front of them, the horses bucked and Brynn struggled to control them, demanding calm. Al-Arynaar carved the air around them, beating back the reavers intent on ripping out their eyes and throats.
Rebraal straightened, sword whipping out in a wide arc. He felt it catch the wing of a cursyrd which squealed and twisted upwards, colour flaring a bright red. He took in the quick view. The roof of the wagon was threatened. The cursyrd’s charge had taken three elves from their precarious canvas perch to a fight in the dust and grass behind. Two remained. Rebraal glanced across Brynn.
‘Gheneer, keep him safe.’
The Al-Arynaar nodded, not breaking from the fight. Rebraal jumped onto the canvas, felt for a strut and balanced instantly, the wagon bucking beneath him. The Al-Arynaar with him fought hard and fast. A sword sliced high into the chest of a cursyrd. A kick to the stomach saw it from the wagon. Another lost an arm to a downward slash and took off, wailing and cursing.
Rebraal took in three, two others flying to join one with its claws already rending canvas. The Al-Arynaar leader took a pace to the next strut and smashed his left foot into its head. The creature somersaulted backwards, wings flailing to break its fall and propel it back into the air. The other two flew on, back-beating their wings, wary of the elf barring their way. Rebraal stood over the tear, sword in two hands, waiting.
They came in left and right. Rebraal smiled and feinted left, ducking low. He jabbed upwards, his sword driving deep between the cursyrd’s legs. It screeched, dark gore pouring from the wound. Rebraal twisted the blade and dragged it clear, surging upright and in the same moment beating his right foot into the midriff of the second creature. Off-balance, it couldn’t drag its arms back quickly enough to stop the elf’s blade puncturing its chest.
Keeping himself moving, Rebraal headed down the wagon towards the rear. The remaining two Al-Arynaar were heavily engaged, strike-strain adding to their problems. He pulled a reaver back by the neck, his sword grating against its spine on the way through its body. He threw the corpse aside. The elf in front of him nodded his thanks, backhanded his blade into the face of another enemy and turned for the next.
Reavers filled the air above them. Al-Arynaar were climbing back up the sides of the wagon. Rebraal looked into the body of the carriage, saw the upturned faces of the guards and the bowed heads of mages. So far, the shell remained protected and intact. But with the air full of cursyrd and The Raven nowhere to be seen, they would have to fight well to keep it that way.
Chapter 30
Dystran had felt it like they all had. The demons’ extraordinary withdrawal to gather at the periphery of Xetesk the day before had allowed them not just to relieve the library of a mass of texts but to go among the people and reassure them of their intentions; bring in fresh food from the farms within the city; gain information about the demons and their ways; and most importantly, bask in the mana stream in the open air and sample the spectrum.
But they had been reluctant to move too far out. Over two years of imprisonment had taken their toll and each mage and soldier could see danger and death in every shadow and corner they passed.
The Lord of the Mount stood on the walls of his college above the main gates and looked out over the city. He could see demons in the sky way to the south where the spectrum was in complete turmoil. The Julatsans were coming.
‘What do you think it means?’ asked Prexys, one of the surviving members of the Circle Seven.
‘Opportunity or desperation. Probably both.’ Dystran smiled, luxuriating in the fresh air. ‘But I still can’t work out why they have left us so alone.’
‘Perhaps they are under more pressure out there than they expected. ’
‘I can’t see it,’ said Dystran. ‘There are so many of them. But even those coming out of the tear are heading straight out there. Whatever the size of force that’s heading this way, they certainly don’t want it arriving.’
Prexys shook his head. ‘Julatsa. What must have happened to drive them out?’
‘Be a shame not to find out, wouldn’t it?’ said Dystran. He turned to Chandyr and Vuldaroq. ‘Gentlemen, are we not honour-bound to help our people under duress? Tell me, Chandyr, do you think they are heading this way?’
‘There’s no doubt about it but they are in a great deal of trouble. I’ve had mages in the sky over the college and they can see the dust cloud but it’s almost covered by a cloud of demons. I don’t recommend we leave here to help them but we can plan to smooth their progress through the city.’
‘Wards, waymarks and mage defender trios, those we can spare,’ said Dystran. ‘But do not compromise the defence of the college, that would be foolhardy in the extreme.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
‘Good. I want sight of your plans so be quick. We have limited time.’ He turned to Vuldaroq. ‘Meanwhile, I think you and I would be well used looking at a few more texts. There has to be more we can discover.’
‘I concur,’ said Vuldaroq.
‘Good. Then let’s be about our business. And Chandyr?’
‘My Lord Dystran.’
‘Arrange a delegation to visit the Wesmen, would you? I’ll prepare a message. I think it’s time we invited Tessaya to the party.’
‘Slow that wagon!’ Rebraal straight-punched a cursyrd on his way to the back of the canvas, seeing one of the third wagon pair closing too fast, driver smothered in strike-strain. ‘Al-Arynaar to the rear.’
He swore under his breath. Behind him, Brynn called a warning. Swinging round, he saw the right-hand lead wagon veer sharply away, chased hard by a pack of some twenty reavers. It was the resting wagon, it had to be. No mage could have retained a ColdRoom structure at that pace. And Pheone was inside it. A cloud of strike-strain swooped overhead and plunged onto the roof, claws jabbing into the already damaged covers. Still standing, three Al-Arynaar laid about them with blade and knife, trying for Auum’s trademark killing blow, but they’d surely soon be overwhelmed.
‘Guard the casting wagon!’ he yelled, kicking out at a lone strike-strain, catching it in the gut. ‘Dammit.’ He tugged the sleeve of an elf. ‘Hold this roof.’
Rebraal dropped down next to Brynn. ‘Straight on. Don’t flinch.’
Brynn’s face ran with blood. To his left, Gheneer kept two reavers at bay. Rebraal snatched a strike-strain from Brynn’s back and crushed it under his foot.
‘Don’t be too long,’ growled the human.
Rebraal jumped to the packed earth and sprinted away towards the stricken wagon. Around him, a storm of noise and chaos was breaking. The wagon-pair captains roared orders. Al-Arynaar warriors tore into their attackers and amongst the thud of weapons, he could pick out the screams of those whom the cursyrd overwhelmed.
Ignoring the fighting that closed in around him, Rebraal focused on the wagon. The reavers had caught it and were engaged on its roof, at its rear and were tearing at its sides. Above, a ForceCone launched from one of the mana holes, battered brief respite into the horde of strike-strain that threatened the driver and his guards before it dissipated quickly within the shell.
Closing on the wagon, Rebraal saw an Al-Arynaa
r blade sweep into the neck of a winged soul stealer. The creature’s grip on the roof strut was lost and it tumbled to the earth, bouncing and rolling. Rebraal hurdled its bright blue dying body. He increased his speed and leapt at the wagon’s tail board. Pain lanced into his back from his injured leg as he landed. He grabbed hold of the rocking carriage and drove his blade into the back of a cursyrd, hurling it backwards and out of the entrance to the wagon.
Inside the light-shot gloom, the fight raged. Strike-strain and reavers battled with Al-Arynaar and desperate human mages. At least one lay dead among the cursyrd bodies and blood gleamed wet on tattered canvas. Pheone was still standing, covered by Al-Arynaar.
‘We have them,’ came a voice. ‘Go forward.’
Rebraal nodded and hauled himself up onto the roof. Three warriors fought there, beating back the reavers storming in from all sides and above. Rebraal couldn’t stop to help them. Running from strut to strut, he struck out at any that came into his path with blade, foot and fist. He felt bone crack and wing tear. Colours flashed in front of his face; dark gore and elven blood mixed underfoot, dripping onto the combatants below.
Carving his blade through the spine of a tall, thin cursyrd, he made the front of the wagon and looked down to the bench and kicking plate below.
‘Yniss protect us.’
A dead Al-Arynaar sprawled half-off the right seat. The driver was still alive, his screams muffled by the strike-strain covering his head. A reaver was poised above him and Rebraal was going to be too late to save him. In front, Al-Arynaar warriors tried desperately to control the panicked horses under constant bombardment from around them.
The reaver plunged its hands up to the wrists into the driver’s exposed back, delivering appalling pain in the moment before its theft.
‘No!’ shouted Rebraal.
He thudded down beside the startled cursyrd and snatched a strike-strain from the air, jamming it onto the point of his sword. The reaver’s eyes met his, hands still buried in its victim’s shattered rib cage. Its colour, a smug deep brown, swam to a bright purple. It knew what was coming and that it could do nothing about it.
Rebraal closed his posture, spun on his uninjured left leg, unwound and took the cursyrd’s head from its shoulders, seeing the dead strike-strain fly from the point of his sword moments before impact.
‘Shorth bring you eternal pain.’
Rebraal had to act fast. The wagon was heading out of the ColdRoom protection, such as it was. Uttering a quick prayer, he shovelled human and cursyrd bodies from the kicking plate, first taking the reins from the dead elf’s hands. He straightened, knocked a strike-strain aside and breathed hard. He had never driven horses before.
Behind him, demons surged onto the wagon and his warriors fought for all their lives. Ahead, elves ran hard, keeping up with the horses, distracted by cursyrd buzzing around their heads and harried by reavers. One slip would be fatal.
‘What do I do?’ he shouted.
‘Slow them!’ came the reply. ‘Turn them left.’
‘And we are all Tual’s children,’ he breathed. ‘That much is obvious.’
He had seen the humans drive. The sure hand, the confident voice of order. He did what he felt Brynn would do. He pulled hard on the reins.
Far too hard.
The horses half-reared in their traces and bolted afresh, the sweat flying from their flanks under the chafing leather. On the roof behind him, elves rebalanced but cursyrd suffered. Wings beat, claws scrabbled. Blood was spilled quickly.
In Rebraal’s hands, the horses were an unstoppable force, driving headlong towards certain doom. As they had for two days, cursyrd swarmed outside the shell, waiting for such a moment.
‘Stop!’ He snapped the reins. The horses merely hastened. ‘Gyal’s tears, no.’
He stared around the sides of the wagon. In the air directly above, more cursyrd bayed and called, whipping the horses’ panic.
Rebraal knew he was helpless but he would not abandon his cargo. He urged the animals to stop. He dragged the reins more softly, pulling left, but they were lost to control. His ears were filled with the protestations of axle and timber, the desperation from within and the calm destruction of cursyrd foolish enough to attack the roof. Dust filled the air around him, clogging his lungs. The horses ploughed on across broken ground. It was a toss-up whether they’d be driven through the edge of the shell aboard the wagon, such was its shaking.
Rebraal consigned his soul to Yniss. Inside the shell, the cursyrd attack was faltering. Outside it, excitement grew. He had watched this from afar three times. Now it was his turn. Again he pressured the reins. Again, nothing.
‘Clear!’ he shouted down to those Al-Arynaar sprinting alongside the runaway horses. ‘Clear!’
They ignored him and he felt proud to die with them.
A detonation sounded beyond the shell. A curious momentary silence followed. Cursyrd bunched then scattered like birds dogged by a predator. A deep green light washed across the space, scattering on impact with the ColdRoom shell. For the first time, Rebraal heard fear in his enemies’ cries. The attack faltered. Reavers took to the air. Strike-strain bunched and flew high. And where the green light touched them, the cursyrd melted.
Wings dripped away, bodies sloughed flesh. They fell in their dozens, wailing and agonised. And through the gap they had made, came The Raven, Auum’s Tai and the Protectors. Rebraal shouted his relief though in truth he wasn’t sure they would save him. The cursyrd were regrouping quickly, determined not to let their prize escape them, and yet more gathered in the sky above The Raven, wanting to claim the greatest prize of all.
Resigned to his position as passenger and spectator and content to keep the strike-strain away, Rebraal watched the extraordinary approach. Thraun, Darrick, Hirad and The Unknown formed a forward line, maces battering the cursyrd in front of them. Immediately behind strode Denser, his dark cloak flowing behind him. From his fingers, a ForceCone claimed space in the air above them.
And finally, the ace in the pack. Erienne, with a guard that brought laughter from Rebraal’s lips. She was flanked by the two Protectors, Kas and Ark, at whose flanks ran Duele and Evunn. They moved as blurs, keeping the space around the One mage’s head clear. Almost anonymous, Auum and Eilaan swept behind and the whole advanced with total belief, total control.
Again the glorious green light surged across the field and again the cursyrd panicked and broke. But this time Erienne stumbled and half fell, pushing her hands out towards her husband. Immediately, the formation changed. Evunn and Duele ran ahead of the Raven line. Ark scooped Erienne into his arms, passing her immediately to Thraun, and took up station behind with Kas and Auum. Denser and Eilaan’s next ForceCones were directed ahead. And they ran straight for the shell and into the path of the runaway wagon.
Sensing an opportunity, the demons regrouped in the air above the shell. The wagon was suddenly free of concerted attack but the horses showed no inclination to slow. Rebraal turned.
‘Al-Arynaar mages to the roof. Now!’
The wagon approached the edge of the shell. The Raven ran on. Rebraal could see The Unknown pointing. Cursyrd flocked in the air. A group of reavers circled behind. A hundred yards from relative safety and it could prove too far.
Rebraal snapped the reins. ‘Get on!’ he shouted.
The horses had no intention of doing otherwise. Spooked out of any vestige of good sense, they drove on towards the waiting pack who had parted to allow the wagon a way through. Ahead, Hirad and Darrick broke formation and angled towards the bouncing, bucking cart. Rebraal heard the sounds of elves across the roof of the wagon. He turned his head.
‘ForceCones,’ he said. ‘The moment we break the shell.’
But facing forwards again, he wondered what he could realistically achieve. Perhaps a little confusion. It would have to be enough.
Hirad had never run so fast. Trying to remember all that Auum had taught him on his sprint technique, he forged on. Darrick ran b
eside him, an athlete born to the land. The two raced. And while they did, the fortunes of many were in the balance.
Auum had identified the runaway wagon and the helpless Rebraal holding its reins. While The Raven approached, it had been a curiosity. Now it was a chance at life.
‘Coldheart, you are old and slow,’ chided Darrick.
‘General, you owe me a drink for every failure. This will be one.’
‘I’ll be proud to buy it.’
‘And I to drink it.’
Hirad could feel the breath scorching into his lungs, mixing with the taste of spell residue and demon stench. They were above him and the General now, gathering to dive. And before them, reavers turned into their path to begin attack runs.
The two men hefted their maces, feeling the weight on tired arms. Behind them, Denser unleashed another spell, freezing the air. Demons tumbled from the sky.
‘Here they come,’ said Darrick.
‘Rebraal needs to drive that wagon faster,’ said Hirad through gasps.
‘Hirad, he isn’t driving it at all.’
‘Roll!’
The pair dropped to the ground, rolled once and regained their feet. Claws slashed the air above them. Wings beat a downdraught across them. Hirad spun and thumped his mace into the back of the nearest enemy. Darrick’s blow crushed wing bones in another. It would slow them but no more.
Strike-strain rained down on them as they ran on. Hirad felt claws scratch at his head and neck, teeth nip into his legs through heavy cloth. He ignored the frost that each break in his skin fed into his body, striking out left at a reaver cruising in to the attack. The blow caught it in the face but it came on, knocking him from his feet. He tumbled and rolled. A tail sliced across his back, cutting into his skin, leaving ice behind.
Not stopping, he scrambled back to his feet. Darrick was ahead of him now, mace cracking strike-strain aside, the feeling of metal on flesh heavy and satisfying. Ahead, the wagon ploughed on. Hirad could see its roof and sides busy with elves and its wheels bouncing on the uneven ground as it rushed towards them. The periphery of the shell moved too, its speed governed by that of the wagons bearing the casting mages and mercifully under greater control. Its edge could be estimated by the demons clustering outside of it and Rebraal was all but through it.
The Raven Collection Page 294
