Dawnthief

by James Barclay

“Shield up,” said Erienne.

  Across the corridor, Thraun was destroying his attackers, the speed of his fist and blade too much for the Acolytes, who lacked the experience and determination of The Raven.

  After The Unknown had carved open the face of another, the Acolytes fell back in response to shouted commands. Guardians rushed to fill the breach, curved blades flashing in the sunlight then dulling as they reached the tunnel's shade.

  “Let's go again, Raven,” shouted The Unknown. “We can take them.”

  An explosion sounded to the right of the square. Blue light flashed briefly. The Acolytes outside froze briefly in surprise and ran left. Styliann had arrived in the square.

  Darrick roared his men on as he dashed the skull of a Shaman with his blade, the Shaman's magic shutting off as his lifeless body flopped to the floor. On seven fronts the Wesmen lines were breached and the surviving defenders were weakening.

  “Close ranks!” he yelled. “Pressure the right. We're moving for the square.” He urged his mount forward, bludgeoning another Wesmen warrior as he picked up pace, his men tightening their grip behind him. With the Shamen threat almost removed, some of his mages turned their attention to the offence, and HardRain fell on the right-hand end of the Wesmen lines. It was too much for the defenders. All along the battle front Wesmen broke ranks and ran, some into the Wastes, others back into Parve.

  “Cavalry, to me!” Darrick's shout was picked up by his lieutenants, and the four-College cavalry surged through the remnants of Wesmen resistance and raced for the pyramid, a detonation from the square ringing in their ears.

  Styliann's second EarthHammer had torn great holes in Parve's central square and triggered the panic he wanted. The Protectors had fanned into a single skirmish line ninety men wide and were sweeping toward the pyramid, swords and axes rising, falling and slicing, thundering through the Acolytes, whose pitiful defences were ripped apart.

  The Lord of the Mount wasn't finished, and his latest FlameOrb fell in the centre of the scattering, milling Acolytes, exploding and sending flame lashing in all directions. Men and women were destroyed, others catching tongues of mana fire, which scorched faces and lit up cloaks.

  The Acolytes began to pour out of the western and northern sides of the square but changed direction again, herding and running back toward the pyramid. Styliann's frowns turned to smiles as he saw the first of the four-College cavalry galloping in. Parve was almost theirs.

  The Keepers felt the beginnings of Denser's casting and surged to their feet, snatching daggers from belts.

  “Infidel,” hissed one as Hirad barred their way, his frame large in the doorway. He beckoned them on while behind him Denser closed his eyes and entered another world.

  So unlike the test shapes he had made, preparing Dawnthief with the catalysts in front of his kneeling body added a new dimension. Before, the shape had been two-dimensional, and grey in colour. Now, blood red, it modulated in the air, sending shivers through the mana flow around Denser's head. He fought to contain it, willing it to mould into the shape he needed.

  But it was as if it had life of its own, and at every turn, more sides joined the complex polygon. He couldn't allow that. To cast with any more sides would be to cast with enough power to destroy everything to the east of the mountains, and deep within him burned the desire to get out alive.

  Denser added the catalyst commands to the mix, and the mana shape pulsed with myriad colours. Finally, he had exerted control, but the measurements had to be so utterly precise. He had to be sure of strength, of direction, of distance. He dropped back into himself and checked every line, every colour and every pulse. And as he did so, Dawnthief fought to break free.

  Hirad surveyed the slaughter in progress. While he was barring the door, only one at a time could come at him with any freedom, and he just cut them down as they did so. Six-inch daggers could never hope to beat a long sword, and because they would not stop coming, he did not stop killing them. Once six were down, his biggest problem lay in not slipping on the blood-slick floor.

  Hirad clambered over the bodies to take the last two. Never uttering a word, he swatted them down and then looked in disgust at what he had done. They might as well have been unarmed, so futile was their defence, and he felt sick to his stomach. Never mind that they had been Acolytes of the Wytch Lords, it was the ease with which he had turned off and massacred them that was the cause of his nausea.

  He'd put up his sword and turned to leave the room when he heard the grating of stone on stone. His blood chilled, the temperature of the room dived again and his body began to shake. He forced himself to turn, gorge rising, fighting the urge to scream. One of the sarcophagus lids had moved. Just a little. But it had moved. He backed away. It moved again. He stepped on a body and fell sliding in the gore, slipping forward and coming to rest right underneath one of the stone caskets. Its lid moved. Then they all did, grating together and sending tremors through Hirad's body that left him heaving for air.

  He scrabbled backward, trying to get his feet under him, but the floor was so wet. He dragged himself to his haunches, turned and pulled bodies out of his way, the only thought in his mind that he had to close the door. He didn't know why, he just had to. The first clang drew a cry from his lips and he felt his heart lurch. The pain in his chest was brief and intense.

  “Oh, Gods,” he breathed. “Come on, Denser. Come on, Denser.” But through the door he could see the Dark Mage still preparing. He dared not look behind him. Another clang. And another. He hauled the last body from the doorway, leapt outside, grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. His eyes caught the scene in the chamber. Long-fingered bone hands were clutching the sides of the caskets, white digits clacking on the stone as they sought for purchase.

  Nausea swept through his body. The evil of centuries flooded the chamber, forcing the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs, which sagged beneath him as he clutched and pushed at the door handle, trying desperately to believe that he had been mistaken in what he had seen. But he knew he wasn't. He had seen the end of Balaia rising from the grave, the animation of a horror so black it defied reason and struck at the very core of sanity. A power great enough to cast down mountains, tear holes in the sky and make rivers of blood from the bodies of the peoples of the east.

  Hirad gasped, his fingers losing sensation as he struggled to maintain a consciousness that seeped from him with every laboured heartbeat. He held the door against Balaia's greatest enemy, a pitiful wretch trying to stop night from falling.

  The Wytch Lords were awake.

  The Guardians were skilled and fierce, driven by fury at the desecration of their masters’ tomb. In The Raven line, The Unknown and Thraun defended and killed with power and pace. But at the right-hand end, the going was less sure. Jandyr was struggling in front of a clever swordsman who had immediately recognised his opponent's problem and hacked overhead, driving the elf's blade close to his face. Will, although defending stoutly enough, was making little headway, breaking through the guard of his enemy just the once to mark his cheek with a long, ugly cut.

  Erienne watched on, maintaining the HardShield but beginning to feel it was pointless. Ilkar was no doubt thinking much the same. As she watched, Jandyr's arm buckled under another heavy blow, and before he could recover, the Guardian had skewered his heart, the elf crying out as he fell.

  “No!” The Unknown surged as he heard Jandyr die, crashing his blade through a Guardian's skull and reversing his swing to smash another's hip. A beat later, Darrick ran in at the head of a force of cavalry and mages. Caught between twin meshes of flashing steel, the remaining Guardians were quickly slaughtered. Darrick nodded at The Unknown, taking in the lifeless body of Jandyr as Will crouched over the elf.

  “Damn it,” said the General. He turned to a lieutenant. “You. I want guard on this tunnel, I want cavalry sweeping the City and I want this square clear of enemies. Do it now.” He swung back to The Unknown. “Where's Hirad?”

 
; “In the pyramid with Denser.” The Unknown was breathing hard.

  “Get after them. I'll hold things here. Styliann's outside, there should be no danger.”

  The Unknown nodded his thanks.

  “Raven! Raven with me!”

  Styliann surveyed the square with great satisfaction. Acolyte bodies covered it, their blood and cloaks making a carpet of red. Here and there, pockets of Wesmen attacked the cavalry and his Protectors, but their resistance was broken. He sighed. As they took Parve by surprise, making a mockery of the wholly insufficient defence, so the weight of the Wesmen armies were surely marching in the east, driving all before them.

  He rode toward the entrance to the tunnel and dismounted, leaning against its right-hand pillar, suddenly tired. The last battle was taking place inside, but he found he had no desire to join it.

  His mana stamina was low, his desire for vengeance appeased. He could wait for Dawnthief to walk back out and straight into his possession. He sat and rested his head in his hands, a wind ruffling his hair.

  Hirad's knuckles whitened on the handle, the sounds from within the room dragging whimpers from his body and sweat from his pores. He felt cold. Hot. So very hot. Cold. His muscles felt they were about to seize and his legs shook so much their juddering unsteadied him. His eyes swam, his head fogged. And then he felt pressure on the handle from the other side. Gentle at first, but quickly more urgent.

  “Denser, please.” His whispers choked in his throat. His hands tightened on the door handle. It turned underneath them, just slightly. Fists thudded against the door, jarring his body as he leant all his weight against it. A heavy blow and the door all but opened. From behind, the sounds of exultation, of rising, of power. Hirad felt the breath stick in his lungs.

  “Denser!” he screamed. “Now!” Behind him, Denser moaned and chanted, his short breathing jabbing anxiety into Hirad's mind. He wasn't sure but the Xeteskian sounded as if he was struggling badly. And the spell remained uncast.

  The second blow shattered the door timbers. Hirad was thrown skittering across the marble, wrist aflame with agony.

  “Denser!” The silhouette of a Wytch Lord stood in the doorway, tattered burial robe hanging, flesh creeping over exposed bones. Hirad saw eyeless sockets in a wedge-shaped head as the towering figure stooped under the lintel. It breathed.

  “Heretic.” Its voice like a body dragged over gravel.

  As Hirad watched, the flesh began to form and grow on its body. Slowly at first, then with greater and greater pace, enveloping its hands, rushing up its legs and stretching over its ribs, covering the organs which grew and writhed and beat from nothing.

  The Wytch Lord, tall and terrible, looked down on him as its body reformed, empty sockets alive with new life, eyes sucking into being, dark, cold and murderous. Other figures crowded behind it. It took a pace forward, the rags of its clothing growing into robes of pure white, ruffling in the breeze of their creation, its bare feet gaining bulk and muscle, toes straightening.

  Hirad glanced at Denser. The Dark Mage, sweat beading and running from his forehead, fought with the spell. His arms, now stretched in front of him, juddered wildly; his voice, low and hoarse, gabbled words the barbarian would never understand.

  “Hurry, Denser,” said Hirad, drawing his sword. “Hurry.” He moved to the ready. The Wytch Lords stood in the doorway to the burial chamber, looming over him, each one well in excess of eight feet in height.

  “Come on then,” he said. “See if you can take me.” He raised his sword and prepared to move. So did the Wytch Lords, the first stepping into the antechamber, its brothers moving to either side. Hirad licked his lips. He was about to die but it wouldn't be alone. Because behind him he heard the pacing of feet and the tapping of steel on stone; rhythmic, echoing, beautiful. A euphoric sensation ran up his spine, the blood surged in his veins and new belief flooded his mind. It was all he needed to give Denser the time to complete Dawnthief.

  “Raven!” he called. “Raven to me!”

  Detached though he was from the danger surrounding him, Denser was dimly aware of the clamour of voices, of running footsteps and the urgency in Hirad's every utterance. Dawnthief's mana shape was as rich as it was difficult to control and, deep within his subconscious, Denser thanked the Master for not leaving out any detail or nuance from his long years of teaching.

  Never before had a spell fought to control him, use him to develop its potential and drain him as it sought more power. It wasn't that the spell was sentient but that the shape his words, gestures and thoughts generated only really had one end: total consummation of the caster and, with him, Balaia.

  Only now did he realise the true nature of Septern's most awful research. And the truth was that now the basic shape was created, he could simply surrender to a chain reaction that would lead to the destruction of everything. The stealing of light. The theft of dawn.

  And so he fought its every effort, cut out every flare of the complex shape, halted every counter-axial spin, every attempt to stop motion and every pull on his rigidly controlled mana reserve. Still it drained him and he was not ready to cast. In front of him, mana joined the catalysts, burning in a triangle that lifted them from the ground and fused them into the core of the spell. The power increased, tempting and probing.

  Yet the focus wasn't there, the power too randomised. To cast now would take The Raven into oblivion along with the Wytch Lords. And though sense told him that was a price that should be paid, he was not prepared to give up. He wanted a channel for Dawnthief's energy, and in theory he could make one. But with the sounds of fighting filtering into his mind, he was aware he had little time left in which to put his theory into practice.

  Hirad's sword clattered into the undefended side of the Wytch Lord, Arumun. He knew its name, and those of the other five, because the clarion call of fear they had launched at his mind was empowered by the use of the six terrifying identifiers. When Denser had spoken the names, that was all they had seemed. Now, confronting the ancient evil, those names lodged deep in his gut and threatened to take the strength from his limbs.

  Arumun howled and fell back, wound gaping, dark fluid oozing. Hirad's shout of triumph cut off abruptly. The wound healed in moments and Arumun straightened and was pushed upright by those behind him, shaking his head.

  “Gods,” breathed Hirad. The Wytch Lord stepped forward and whipped out its hand with a speed that almost beat Hirad's guard. He staggered under its weight.

  “We can't fight them,” he said.

  “Yes, we can,” said The Unknown. “All we have to do is keep them back.” He swung his blade through waist high, connecting with flesh and splintering bone. Belphamun collapsed to the floor. “They're still weak. Let's keep them that way.”

  “Shield up,” said Ilkar.

  Hirad half froze and looked behind the three Wytch Lords who confronted them. The other three, Ystormun, Pamun and Weyamun, were casting.

  “Let's take it to them, Raven!” Standing half a pace behind and to the right of The Unknown Warrior, Hirad blocked another sweep of the hand from Arumun and buried his blade in the Wytch Lord's chest. The wound was healing before he dragged his sword clear. He glanced along the line.

  Belphamun had risen quickly, The Unknown ducked a haymaking punch and chopped at its legs, cracking bone, causing it to stumble. Seizing his chance, he reversed his guard into its face and slashed halfway through its neck. This time, the fall was heavier, the cry of pain more hideous.

  “Shield up. Denser is covered,” said Erienne.

  Giriamun swatted at Will, catching the frightened man on the top of his shoulder. He shouted briefly and crumpled. Thraun bellowed anger and hacked at the flailing arm, shattering the elbow. Giriamun simply came back with the other, fist connecting sharply with the top of Thraun's skull. The young warrior spun and fell senseless.

  “Damn it,” rasped The Unknown.

  “Come on, Denser,” whispered Hirad.

  The Wytch Lords’ spells ca
me sudden and violent, pulses of raw light, dark and malevolent, punching into the shields around Denser and the fighting Raven, flaring over their surfaces, fizzing and cracking. They held just long enough. Belphamun rose, his eyes clear evil.

  “Shield down,” said Ilkar, gasping for breath.

  The Unknown and Hirad locked gazes for a heartbeat, the barbarian tired to the base of his being, muscles crying for respite, lungs heaving, heart slamming. He didn't know how much more he had in him.

  “Do it,” he said.

  The Unknown launched a crazed attack, first dropping to his haunches to hack at Belphamun's legs, next springing up to chop at the exposed neck, the Wytch Lord following his movements too slowly. To his right, Hirad switched grip, slicing up and left and catching Arumun in the lower jaw, snapping its head back and forcing it off balance. He followed with a reverse sweep which crashed into the following Lord's face. But the blow from Weyamun came from nowhere.

  Belphamun fell but Ystormun and Pamun closed on The Unknown. He swivelled and raised a guard, but as Hirad pitched to the mosaic, he saw the blows fall on the big man. And though he stayed on his feet, it wasn't enough. The Wytch Lords would cast again.

  Hirad scrabbled for his sword and started to get up, pain from his shoulder spiking every movement, his vision clouded, aware he couldn't leave The Unknown to fight them alone. He half rose but Weyamun punched him down again. The Unknown fell next to him, blood running from his face.

  “Get up, Unknown.”

  “I'm here.”

  The two friends sought purchase on each other, pain blossoming where the fall of Wytch Lord fists had bruised muscle and bone. Hirad's body protested, exhaustion threatening to defeat the drive to stand, legs shaking, feet aching, sword arm on fire. From behind them, Ilkar launched FlameOrbs which struck the centre of the Lords, spilling fire and light, incinerating robes and charring new flesh, which sprouted again and again through the flame. They didn't pause to damp it down.

  Hirad looked up. Six faces wreathed in smoke and firelight loomed over him. Triumphant, exultant, victorious.