‘Hmmm.’ Hirad leaned back against the Temple steps, draining his mug. ‘And can Jandyr ride?’ The elf was being left to rest.
Erienne nodded. ‘Wake him any time, just don’t ask him to fight or fire his bow.’
‘How long before he can?’
‘In an ideal world, a day, no more. But we’re riding hard and it’ll pull at his wounds. If I don’t get the time, you don’t get your bowman.’
‘Great,’ said Hirad. ‘Well, I guess we shouldn’t hang around here waiting for the end of the world. Let’s go and create it for ourselves.’ He clapped Ilkar on the shoulder and rose.
Inside half an hour, they were riding for the Torn Wastes.
To Darrick, it was all very simple. Ride the secondary trails to the Wastes and there drive hard into the flanks of the Guardians and Keepers of the Tomb. Kill anything that got in the way and see The Raven back to the pass, victorious.
But two hours after dawn of his third full day in Wesmen lands, a third of his men were dead, another fifty were injured and his mage support was in tatters. Stopping to assess the damage fully, his body shaking with rage and humiliation, he still couldn’t see how the Wesmen could have known their route.
Seventy bowmen, concealed from the path, launching waves of death and disorder that cut down horse and man alike. At the first wave, the cavalry broke ranks, charging left and right up the shallow incline into the shrubland behind which the trap had been laid. More lost their lives as arrows hurtled in from close range before, at last amongst them, the cavalry wiped out the Wesmen archers. He considered himself very fortunate not to have run into any Shamen.
Darrick surveyed his forces, reading the shock and dismay in their faces. He dispatched the worst injured back to the pass before consulting the lead mage. The Xeteskian was now in charge of only seventeen.
‘Can you hold hard and magical shields on the gallop?’
‘What’s your plan?’
Darrick shook his head. ‘We have to push on. If we decide to leave the trails, we may as well turn back now because we’ll be too late. I want to turn this around, drive hard the rest of the day and surprise them with how deep we are into their territory. If we meet another ambush, I don’t want to pause in the gallop.’
‘That’s high risk,’ said the Xeteskian.
‘I know, but we’ve got to take the initiative. They should never have been that well set. There is no way they could have known our route. No way.’
The mage raised his eyebrows. ‘The Wytch Lords must be closer to walking than we thought.’
‘Will you attempt the shield?’ asked Darrick.
The Xeteskian nodded. ‘Of course, if it’s what you wish.’
‘It is. Right, I’ve got to talk to the men, bring them up for this. It’s going to be one hell of a chase.’ Darrick smiled. ‘Two days to save Balaia. Ready?’
The Lord Tessaya stood with his Shamen on the hills outside Understone Pass which he had so recently relinquished but was surely soon to retake. Thirty thousand of his countrymen, some enemies less than a year ago, were camped within a few hours of the pass, while a dozen Shamen under protection from three hundred of Tessaya’s pass survivors were moving closer to the pass itself. A further five thousand Wesmen were ready to pour back under the mountains. It would be a sweet moment.
‘I want them slaughtered to a man for what they did to me. But bring me Darrick alive. I will personally oversee his very slow death manacled to the stone he thought to take from me.’ The Shamen nodded; one issued instructions. ‘How long before we are in position? ’
‘We will be awaiting your instruction as the sun reaches its zenith, Lord.’
Tessaya looked to the sky: two hours. Two hours and then maybe he could erase the sounds of the terrified as the sea from the sky crashed through the pass. The echoes of the water beating off the walls and sweeping away his people, their cries, their shouts and their pleas dying with them as they were driven into the chasms. So many would never be found to rest on pyres of honour. So many never had the chance to fight and die as they had dreamed.
But the towering act of cowardice would be avenged as his people forged into the east to take as they pleased. For the first time in days, Tessaya smiled.
‘I will mount up and lead my people back where they belong,’ he said. ‘We will soon all be drinking the blood of College mages.’
The Raven rode hard through unforgiving countryside as the sun rose into a partly cloudy sky. They hadn’t seen or heard any pursuit since leaving the Temple. The Unknown could no longer feel the Protectors and had no idea whether they were heading east or west. But though they were making good progress, the way was difficult, the horses would tire quickly and the risk of accident was ever present.
Their principal concern, though, was Jandyr. The elven bowman was struggling. After a night in which he was kept asleep under Erienne’s WarmHeal, he had pronounced himself able to ride, though his white, drawn and sweat-sheened face told The Raven about the pain he was suffering.
For an hour, he seemed to be standing it well, but as the morning wore on, he slowed more and more, spending much of his time flanked by Denser and Erienne, or Ilkar and Erienne. The mages, all with well-tuned healing ability, watched anxiously as the wound in his shoulder and back pulled and strained, blood soaking into his leather and shirt and dripping down his left arm, which hung strapped to his side.
At the first rest stop, and with the horses being checked, fed and watered by Thraun and Will, the rest of The Raven gathered around a gasping Jandyr as he lay propped against a moss-covered boulder. They had come to a stop at the head of a valley. Below them, the hills, windblown and stark, rolled away north and west towards Parve, while behind, the forest land they’d ridden through and which had provided such good cover lay like a coarse green blanket covering steep incline and shallow slope alike.
Perhaps a thousand feet below them, the principal trail from Parve to Understone cut along the base of the Baravale Valley, which bored one hundred miles between the west’s two principal ranges of hills and mountains. Now and again on the prevailing wind, the sounds of marching Wesmen reached them while they, out of sight, sat and considered their position.
‘Is there anything you can do to ease the pain?’ asked Hirad. Denser paused from warming Erienne’s hands and looked at her.
‘Hold on,’ she said. She withdrew her hands and helped Jandyr turn on to his side, giving her access to his wound. She unpicked the crude stitching of his leather and, with Ilkar’s help, eased the bloody jacket’s parts aside, cursing at the ruination of her work of the previous night. ‘The wound is pulling from the riding, there’s little I can do about that. What I can do is take the pain away, but he’ll not be aware of any further damage he’s doing. That could be dangerous.’
‘Jandyr?’ asked Hirad.
The elf breathed deeply, the sound a little ragged. ‘I can’t ride on like this,’ he said. ‘The pain is getting too much and I’ll hold you up. There’s a choice. Either you leave me here and come back when it’s over, or Erienne casts the spell.’
‘You can’t stay here alone,’ said Erienne. ‘Without treatment you won’t survive.’
‘Then the decision’s made,’ said Hirad.
‘He’ll need supporting some of the time. He won’t always be able to hold himself upright,’ said Erienne.
‘What are you planning on casting?’ asked Denser.
‘SenseNumb.’
‘That’s a little strong, isn’t it?’ said Ilkar.
Erienne hesitated.
‘What is it?’ Jandyr frowned. ‘It’s worse than you thought, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘The bleeding is worse than it should be. The flesh hasn’t knitted at all. I know you’ve been straining it in the ride but it should be better than it is. I need to cast SenseNumb to keep you going at all. I should be able to do more tonight.’
‘Will I still be alive tonight?’ asked the elf.
‘I don’t k
now,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got a good record at keeping people alive, have I?’ Tears were suddenly in her eyes and running down her cheeks. Denser put an arm around her shoulder. He looked to Hirad.
‘I think we’d better get on,’ he said.
Approaching the village there was magic in the air. Styliann slowed his advance and moved to the rear of the column of Protectors. Still mounted, they walked their horses in close formation, the innate magical shields of the Protectors overlapping to produce something the Shamen would have to work hard to penetrate.
After leaving the Temple clearing, Styliann had turned south, his fury undimmed following a second humiliation at the hands of The Raven. And while he saw the sense of The Unknown’s words, he had already made up his mind that his route to Parve would not be at The Raven’s choice of pace. If he arrived in time to distract attention from them, so be it.
He had chosen as his first target a village just inside the Heartlands which would have staged marches towards Understone Pass and, possibly, the Bay of Gyernath. The village lay less than two days from the Torn Wastes. It would be a fitting message to the Wytch Lords about where the power really lay.
‘Advance,’ he ordered. ‘There are no innocents. Spare no one.’ It was the only voice that was heard as the Protectors pushed their horses to a gallop, making an arrow formation with Styliann at its rear, already forming the mana shape for his favourite destructive spell. He smiled at the very thought of what he had just ordered.
With only the sound of their horses to reveal their presence, the Xeteskian Protectors swept into the unprepared Wesmen village. Built on classic Wesmen lines, the village was arranged in a circle around the central tribal totem and fire. It contained about thirty buildings, fencing for animals and open-sided, roofed structures for crop storage.
The ninety-strong force divided into two around the circle, swords drawn and hammering down on the villagers, who scattered screaming in every direction. Men, women, children, no one in the way was spared the blade. And behind them, Styliann rode into the centre of the circle, spell prepared.
‘HellFire,’ he said.
A dozen columns of fire crashed through the roofs of occupied dwellings, deluging victims and devastating buildings. Wood and flame filled the air. Burning figures ran from buildings, noise pounded the ears.
At the end of their sweep, the Protectors dismounted in almost balletic synchronicity and jogged back through the carnage, axes now drawn in spare hands. The village was in chaos. The dozen buildings hit by Styliann’s soul-searching HellFire burnt fiercely, sending palls of black smoke into the sky. Survivors of the flames and the first Protector charge ran, some for the trees, some for their weapons. One marched towards the unprotected Styliann.
The Lord of the Mount slid from his horse, his magical shield formed and deployed immediately following the HellFire, sword drawn. The Shaman cast, ten black tendrils coursing at Styliann, playing over the shield and sending lines of force around his body. The shield should have breached under the pressure. Styliann could see that in the Shaman’s eyes.
‘Oh dear,’ said Styliann. He walked forward and punched the Shaman with the pommel of his sword. Around him, the Protectors, silent, fast, ruthlessly efficient, were firing the remaining buildings and slaughtering everyone they found, young or old, suffering hardly a scratch as they advanced. The Shaman fell back, stumbling to his knees. Styliann’s kick into his face hurled him clear on to his back, where he sprawled, blood covering his nose and cheeks. The Lord of the Mount crouched by him, the terrified man unable to do anything but stare into his face.
‘You will be a message to your masters, your village will be a shrine to all who follow me, its buildings left to blacken, its people carrion, rotting as they lie unburied in the sun.’
‘Who are you?’
Styliann smiled. ‘Dare not challenge the power of Xetesk.’ He slapped the Shaman’s hand from his nose and placed his own hand over the man’s mouth, holding it there while casting a FlamePalm directly into his throat. The Shaman died, writhing in agony, fire from his eyes and nostrils, hair smouldering and cracking. Styliann rose, dusted himself down and remounted his horse.
‘Disengage!’ he ordered. He looked about him satisfied, wondering if Parve would burn as well.
‘Close up!’ yelled Darrick. ‘Deploy shields.’
The four-College cavalry was ploughing along the main trail between Understone and Parve before turning north to come at Parve from what Darrick assumed would be right angles to The Raven. They tore down the trail and hammered into the front of the Wesmen force, stopped along the trail and barely armed and ready by the time they were hit.
‘Shields up!’ called a mage as the spearmen at the front of the column scythed the first Wesmen aside. The cavalry galloped through, swords slicing left and right, shields flaring as Shamen magic hit but couldn’t penetrate the overlapping College spells. They didn’t pause, didn’t turn and didn’t look back, and in their wake, seventy Wesmen would never make Understone Pass.
Leaving the main trail shortly afterwards for the northern marches, two days from the Torn Wastes, Darrick drew his cavalry to a halt and a well-earned rest stop.
‘Was that really necessary?’ asked one of his mages.
‘No,’ said Darrick. ‘But I’ll tell you something, it was bloody good fun.’
And all about them, the smiles returned to the faces of his warriors.
Barras stood in the watchtower, unable to drag himself away as light faded on the penultimate day of peace in Julatsa. Behind the old elf mage, his College City prepared for a war they couldn’t hope to win following the slaughter at Triverne Inlet only three days before. So many men, so many mages had gone, and while relief had been promised, none of it had arrived. Xetesk had even reported Styliann on his way with a hundred Protectors, but Barras knew in his heart where Styliann had gone.
And so he stood, watching the dark mass of Wesmen advancing. They would be within range of spells early the next morning, and Barras shivered at the thought of the white and black fire that the Shamen used, gouging the heart of Julatsa.
The City and College Guards were ready, the College’s mages were briefed and positioned, but Barras knew that, failing a miracle, Julatsa would be in Wesmen hands by nightfall the day after tomorrow. They simply had no winning answer to the Shamen magic. Yes, they could shield effectively against it, but the drain on mana and mage resources was so great, it left too few to cast offensively. And with Julatsan swordsmen outnumbered better than four to one, and with no walls around the City, the outcome of the battle was inevitable because the Shamen never seemed to tire.
Barras felt his eyes filling with tears as he recalled the stories of his great-grandfather, who, as a young mage, had witnessed the first Wytch Lord-backed Wesmen invasion. Towns and cities on fire, crops torched, bodies scattered, children fatherless. Refugees clustered in shelter where they could, marauding bands of Wesmen murdering everyone they found and the Shamen, nowhere near as powerful as this time, performing rites and sacrifices as they claimed eastern lands for their own.
It was all going to happen again and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. And this time there was no mage force capable of defeating the Wytch Lords, there was no army capable of routing the Wesmen. The only hope was The Raven, but Barras had so many doubts about their chances of success. His last prayer as he made his weary way down from the tower was that they would destroy Dawnthief if they couldn’t cast it.
A shudder went through his body, then a moment of calm. At least if the spell fell into Wytch Lord hands, the suffering of the peoples of the east would be short.
Safe for now, with night falling to cloak their hiding place in the hills, Blackthorne, Gresse and the remnants of the Bay of Gyernath force sat in cold contemplation of their fate. Already, many of the mercenaries had left to prepare for the fights for their own families, or simply to run, meaning that little over four hundred swordsmen and mages remained to slow
the relentless progress of the Wesmen towards Understone.
Gresse, his left arm bandaged and good for little but lifting his fork to his mouth, bit into his bread, speaking after he had washed it down with water.
‘They’ll be at Understone in less than three days if we don’t delay them again. We have to try.’
‘It’s suicide,’ said Blackthorne, his face smeared with dirt and lined by the constant attrition of his forces. Five times they had attacked the Wesmen and five times they had been driven away by a combination of the Shamen magic and the increasing ferocity of the Wesmen themselves. They had two horses for every three men, and taking away the wounded and exhausted, around three hundred and fifty men fit to fight on.
‘We can’t let them take Understone,’ said Gresse. ‘Not without - what was it you said? - giving them something to think about. If they do, they’ll control all the entry points to the east and the Colleges will be open from both flanks.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Blackthorne wearily.
‘First light tomorrow, we hit them from the front. The Shamen are far enough to the rear of the lines to give us a few seconds’ killing time before we have to put the shields up, and at least it’ll stop them moving.’
‘They’ll slaughter us.’
Gresse nodded. ‘I know. But a battle lasting an hour will delay them most of the day once they have re-formed, burned their dead and made sure we are gone for good.’
Blackthorne looked long at his friend, the older man’s eyes still twinkling in his head, his energy seemingly boundless. He had a better idea, but the result would be no less final.
‘We’ll take them at the Varhawk Crags,’ said Blackthorne. ‘There, we can station archers and mages to cause trouble to the centre of the column while we make a double-shielded charge into the front.’
The Raven Collection Page 48