Ravensoul

by James Barclay

  But on the ground the tide was going against the enemy. Fifteen groups of shielded mages and soldiers moved in and out of combat areas as the Garonin landed. The focus of the assault was the base of the tower complex, as the enemy sought access to the catacombs and hence the Heart of Xetesk.

  High up above, Densyr’s tower was taking a dreadful pounding. Slabs of stone were falling to the ground, dealing as much damage to enemy as to ally. Suarav wondered what it was they wanted from up there.

  ‘Hold,’ said Suarav. ‘Use the angles. Garonin on the deck.’

  Mages crouched and prepared. Surrounding them, guards watched outwards. Time slowed. A section of wall a hundred yards to the left burst in. Chandyr cursed.

  ‘There next,’ said Suarav.

  ‘Ready,’ said Brynar.

  ‘Cast at will,’ said Suarav.

  Twenty Garonin were walking through the gap in the wall. Their weapons sprayed death in a wide arc around them.

  ‘Wait,’ said Suarav. ‘New target. Our left.’

  ‘Got them,’ said Brynar. ‘Cleansing Flame. Cast.’

  Multiple columns of super-heated mana flame roared down from the sky. Each one sought a single target. Armour flared white, twenty suits trying to ward off the power of Xetesk’s most powerful individual offensive spell. They had no chance. The deluge of fire reached inside their bodies and destroyed them in an instant. No screams, no flailing limbs. The Garonin were driven into the ground. One moment walking, the next burning and still.

  ‘Back towards the tower complex,’ said Suarav. ‘Good work, Brynar.’

  The group moved quickly. Across in front of them, a stretcher party of civilians wearing blue armbands ran to deal with wounded on the walls. Others in yellow, green and orange bands brought up replacement weapons, got water to any who had the chance to drink but mainly tried to patch up the wounded and clear away the dead.

  Xetesk had learned from the mistakes of Julatsa and Lystern. Suarav was pleased. A long way to go yet but so far they held. Frontal defence was not the way. Fight them hand to hand. Spread your force. Keep moving and keep alive. And invest mana in your walls to stop the enemy flooding over you like a spring tide.

  ‘General, look!’

  Brynar was pointing up at Densyr’s tower. A mass of Garonin fire was trained on it. As Suarav watched, he saw the pinnacle and upper floors buckle and fall. His breath caught in his throat. The weight of falling stone accelerated the collapse of the floors below. The pinnacle itself tumbled almost gracefully down on a cloud of debris, smashing into the dome of the tower complex and breaking through it.

  He began to run but knew he was already too late. Nothing could save those within. And as quickly as he had started, he slid to a stop. The collapse halted right above Densyr’s dining chamber. A spell flared deep blue beneath the piles of rubble, broken furniture and flapping clothing and drapes. Suarav breathed again.

  ‘He’s good, our Lord of the Mount,’ said Chandyr.

  But Suarav was not smiling yet. He saw the spell and the rubble begin to shift.

  ‘Clear the complex approach. Move, move. Shields above you now!’

  He was running again, waving his arms and yelling over and over for people to get out of the way. Timber and stone fell in a torrent. Where it didn’t beat straight through the roof of the dome, it bounced and rolled, thundering onto the courtyard and steps in front of the complex doors.

  Suarav saw men crushed, others diving and rolling away. He saw mages trying to get shields in place and he saw, from above, more Garonin dropping to the broken roof of the tower.

  ‘Brynar, see to the wounded. Take three guards with you and get blue team to help. The rest of you, Chandyr, Densyr needs us.’

  Suarav felt every one of his fifty-nine years. The breath was pained in his chest and his lungs felt clogged with dust. He lengthened his stride. The violent heaving of the courtyard under his feet took him completely by surprise and sent him sprawling on his face.

  For a moment he thought he’d imagined it, but when he got himself back to his feet, he saw cracks in the courtyard cobbles and people everywhere brushing themselves down. A curious quiet fell across the whole college. The Garonin weapons had fallen silent and all that could be heard was the wheezing of the machine and the cracks of lightning in the detonation cloud.

  It was a quiet short-lived. A wailing blare came from the floating machine and a melodious call from the mouth of every Garonin. As one, their weapons turned on Densyr’s tower and an extraordinary weight of fire deluged the ancient bound stone.

  The courtyard rippled again, and this time, from beneath the stones, he saw a flash of blue light.

  All three mages had Ilkar’s Defence spells running and spread on as broad a front as they could manage. The intensity of Garonin fire scorched paper inside the wrecked chamber as the heat spiralled.

  Sol tried to protect his family as best he could. Auum and his Tai had fled the chamber to join Thraun’s attack on the Garonin directly above. Sirendor was trying desperately to keep Hirad from suffocating. Ilkar, Densyr and Dystran, faces drawn into rictus grins by the strain, were clinging on but the Julatsan was struggling. Ilkar was quivering all over and a strangled choke was being dragged from his throat.

  ‘Can’t do this,’ he croaked.

  ‘Hang on, Ilkar. Hang on.’

  But Sol didn’t know what for or for how long. In his chair Septern twitched and muttered. They had felt the heaving of the floor beneath them and Dystran had shouted something about the Heart but that was all.

  ‘Re. Re. Pel.’ Septern’s eyes opened briefly, fluttered and closed again. ‘Fo . . . usss.’

  Blue flame encased the tower. Denser and Dystran screamed and clutched at their heads. Defence spells failed. Enemies dropped into their midst, followed by the feet and blades of the TaiGethen. A wind howled through the tower, threatening to pluck them all from their precarious perch and throw them down to their deaths.

  Sol crouched and laid his arms across his family. The flame gathered density; it curled and twisted into a spire above them, wreathing and pulsing. The pressure built quickly. Septern was juddering in his chair as if shaken by unseen hands. Densyr was flat on his back, tears streaming from his eyes. Dystran was unconscious.

  The Garonin fire increased but every tear that hit the mana spire deflected harmlessly away. The spire’s blue deepened almost to black and a spear of mana punched upwards and crashed into the underside of the machine, knocking it sideways through the air. The carriage hanging beneath it disintegrated in a ball of flame, scattering debris and bodies to fall to the earth.

  Briefly, the colour of the spire lightened. Septern squeezed his eyes shut. Another spear shot up. This one skewered the machine’s bulbous bell.

  ‘Oh dear God’s falling,’ whispered Sol.

  The machine exploded. White, blue and grey light flashed like hot sun into a blackout room. Flame ripped across the circumference of the bell. Repeated detonations rippled its hide, sending fresh flame clawing at the sky. The shock wave reflected down, rattling the tower and sending a great swathe of heat across the college. Flame dispersed over the cylinder of mana encircling the tower.

  The machine hung in tatters in the air for a moment, flaps of burning skin clinging to the ribs of its skeleton, before dipping left and crashing down onto the east walls. Sol could hear the screams of Garonin soldiers. Melodious no more but a lament just the same.

  Spells still fell, taking out the remaining invaders. Sol slowly dragged himself to his feet. He could hear cheering from the courtyard. And barked orders. Suarav and Chandyr were still cautious. Sol looked down on his family. Diera was cuddling young Hirad, whose shocked white face stared into his.

  ‘It’s all right now, little one,’ said Sol. ‘It’s all over for now.’

  ‘We’ve won,’ breathed Densyr. ‘We’ve actually won.’

  Jonas stirred from his slumber in the mind of Sha-Kaan and his face was full of regret.

  ‘
No, Lord Densyr, I’m afraid we haven’t.’

  Chapter 32

  TaiGethen had found and secured the old trail that ran from the abandoned, destroyed Wesman fishing village on North Bay. It ran away through the foothills of Sunara’s Teeth and down a long tree-studded valley that stretched away out of sight and led, they had to hope, through the mountains and into Wesman lands proper. The valley was broad and its slopes ran up to a jumble of outcrops and crags. It was bleak but the air was fresh. The scents of the land and of Tual’s creatures gave the ClawBound panthers a strut to their stride.

  While Al-Arynaar disembarked elves on the beach before moving them on in ordered groups to the first of the camps just to the south of the old village, Rebraal was with the forward party, looking for a second campsite. The day was young and the ground was easy. Panthers scouted ahead while their Bound elves ran the flanks of the force of thirty TaiGethen cells and four hundred Al-Arynaar.

  Dila’heth was at his side. She, like every Al-Arynaar mage, wore the cloak of loss that Julatsa’s fall had thrown about their shoulders. They could still cast, but even the simplest spell had been rendered difficult, tiring and even dangerous.

  ‘How will it feel in our new home?’ asked Rebraal.

  ‘Different,’ said Dila. ‘We have little expectation of being able to cast in a wholly separate dimension. But mana is everywhere, and if it should exist there, we can eventually build a new Heart to focus it. We will have hope for the future once we have arrived home. Here, we have precious little.’

  Heat blossomed to their right. The ground heaved and shuddered. Rebraal pitched forward, turning a forward roll before coming back to a crouch. Elves across the force stopped to look. A ClawBound panther’s mournful warning echoed against mountain and valley side.

  And there they were. Blinking out of nowhere. Standing still for a few moments before marching downslope, firing as they came. Garonin. Hundreds of them.

  ‘Shields!’ yelled Rebraal as the first teardrops tore into the Al-Arynaar. ‘Dila, get your mages casting whatever they can. Al-Arynaar, we are attacked. Break and skirmish. Go!’

  Explosions ripped up the ground at Rebraal’s feet. He hurled himself left and rolled into the lee of a standing stone. Back along the elven line, he saw his brothers and sisters ripped to shreds by the concentration of fire from the Garonin weapons. Blood misted in the air, mingling with the screams of the injured and dying.

  He drew his blade.

  ‘How did they find us so soon?’

  But there was no one to answer. The TaiGethen were on the attack. A ClawBound elf stood astride a Garonin soldier, plunging his sharpened nails into flesh again and again until the white fire blew his head from his shoulders. Time to fight. Time to die. Rebraal raced up the slope, rage blinding his fear.

  ‘Al-Arynaar. For Tual! For Yniss and for your brothers!’

  Rebraal ducked under a Garonin weapon and rammed his sword up and into the neck of his enemy. The man gurgled and collapsed. Rebraal pulled his blade clear. Left, the TaiGethen were too quick for the ponderous Garonin. Elves leapt, spun and kicked at the huge invaders. They dropped, rolled and dodged. Their strikes were fast and deadly.

  Bodies littered the valley side. Small fires burned all over. Rebraal ran back into the thickening smoke at the centre of the fight. Ten Al-Arynaar were with him. Once the shock of the appearance of the Garonin force had dissipated, the elves had quickly split to surround their foe. With the TaiGethen leading the way, they had got in amongst the Garonin, making every shot they fired a risk to their own.

  Ahead of Rebraal, a stream of teardrops pulsed from a weapon, deluging a pair of Al-Arynaar not quick enough to dive aside. The next instant, a TaiGethen boot had kicked the weapon aside and a jaqrui throwing crescent had lodged in its wielder’s helmet. The Garonin fell, the last thing he would have seen, the blade that took him through the eye.

  Rebraal ran at a tight knot of Garonin. There were five of them, back to back and tracking elves with their weapons but not firing. Rebraal grunted satisfaction. They were conserving power, no question about it.

  ‘Break up and move in,’ said Rebraal. ‘Watch them closely. Those weapons will still have plenty in them. Dila. Drop something on them. Anything.’

  Dila’heth stopped running and crouched low to begin casting. Rebraal’s warriors spread out in a wide arc and closed in, keeping low to the ground and moving fast. All around them weapons still fired. Smoke hung thick over the ground and the screams of the wounded haunted the air.

  The enemy saw them coming and weapons were brought to bear. Rebraal prayed to Tual to guide the hands of his warriors and deflect those of his enemies. And then Dila’heth’s spell struck. The cone of pure mana rammed into the Garonin. Shielded as they were from many offensive spells, they had little defence against the bludgeoning force Dila sent against them. Three were downed; the other two scrambled left and right to escape a similar fate.

  Rebraal sprinted in, calling his warriors to him. They fell on the helpless enemy, leaping to hack and slash at heads and necks. This was close to frenzy and Rebraal did not like the way it felt. He saw the lust in the eyes of some of his warriors. Rebraal stooped to deal a quick killing blow to the last Garonin and stood back.

  ‘Remember who you are,’ he said. ‘We are Al-Arynaar. Keepers of our faith. Leaders of our people. Fight and fight well.’

  He turned to look out over the battlefield. A weapon sounded from close by. Teardrops ripped through a cloud of smoke. He dived left but one caught his right arm, sending him spinning to the ground. His sword fell from his hand and he cried out as a burning pain hit him with nauseating force.

  Rebraal clutched his right forearm and brought his hand up to his face where he lay writhing on the ground. His wrist was smashed. The skin was blackened across his hand and down almost to his elbow. He could see gory daylight through the centre of his arm where the teardrop had cut straight through him. The smell of burned flesh clogged his nostrils.

  He screamed until the breath left him. And then he dragged in another breath and screamed again. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. A crawling agony that filled his arm and his entire body. He barely felt the comforting hands on him. He could see nothing beyond his ruined limb. A cool palm caressed his forehead and the pain ebbed away.

  Rebraal was brought to a sitting position. Dila’heth was in front of him. Behind her, another cone of mana struck the Garonin who had fired, but this time it seemed to slide past him. Yet the adaptation to the spell did not help him. A TaiGethen elf whirled past him, slicing a cut deep into his chest through his shining armour, and a ClawBound panther sprang and tore out his throat.

  The valley side was silent but for the breeze blowing the smoke gently away and the cries of those still in pain. Rebraal swallowed and looked at his arm again. He felt sick. The wound, blackened and cauterised, looked even larger than it had the first time. He could not move his fingers and a dull ache was spreading down from his shoulder.

  ‘Oh Dila,’ he said. ‘Look what they’ve done to me.’

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘In time. You still have your hand and we can make the nerves regrow. Be strong, Rebraal.’

  The Garonin were in full retreat but they had nowhere to go. With the TaiGethen after them, they chose cowardice rather than valour and began to blink out of existence. Dila’heth bent to her task. She whispered words Rebraal could not understand and placed her hand around his wrist.

  A moment’s intense heat was washed away by a freezing cold that penetrated the wound and spread up his arm, numbing all sensation. Rebraal watched while the blackened, burned skin began to pale at his elbow and recede downwards towards the centre of the wound, turning to a healthy tone.

  When he looked back up at her, Dila was done, and the slump in her shoulders and the sweat on her brow told of her efforts. Rebraal could still see the wound clearly enough. It was red raw and the ache was spreading in again. But he had some movement in his h
and now.

  ‘It will need bandaging and cleaning. I can do no more. It will heal completely, given time.’

  Rebraal rose to his feet and reached out for Dila to help her up. He pulled her into an embrace.

  ‘Tual will reward you every day for all that you have ever done in his service,’ he said. ‘Walk with me. I will support you.’

  But there was to be nowhere to go. A flat harsh sound echoed from the mountains, pressing on the ears. The Garonin attack had been a mere prelude. From within the clouds vydospheres descended gracefully. Four of them in the valley. Rebraal stared back towards the beach and the open sea. He could count another five, hanging above the last remnants of the elven race and waiting to pounce.

  Garonin soldiers appeared in their hundreds and thousands. High on the peaks and on both sides of the valley. Elves began to move back down to the centre of the path. TaiGethen and ClawBound set up a perimeter and waited for the attack, yet none appeared imminent.

  ‘They have us,’ said Rebraal. ‘They must have been tracking us all along.’

  ‘Why don’t they attack? Why are they waiting?’

  ‘I really have no idea,’ said Rebraal.

  ‘What can we do?’

  ‘At the moment, nothing. They have the numbers to slaughter us before we get close to them. Until the TaiGethen report a weakness, we can do nothing but sit and wait.’

  ‘For what?’

  Rebraal looked at her and shrugged. ‘The end.’

  ‘Father, you have to make him listen to me,’ said Jonas. ‘Please, there isn’t much time.’

  ‘Jonas, we hear you,’ said Densyr. ‘But we have to get out of this tower.’

  ‘But you aren’t listening.’

  ‘Jonas!’ snapped Sol. ‘Wait. Let me deal with it.’

  Dystran and Densyr were standing over Septern.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ said Ilkar.