‘But I must say this. If we don’t hold the Wesmen here for another few hours at least, they will flank Understone. With the pass soon to be under attack, and Julatsa on the brink of war, that flanking could destroy the core of our defences. And if they go, Balaia goes with them.
‘For those of you who have heard of what The Raven are trying to do, then yes, every further minute we can give them to achieve their goal and destroy the Wytch Lords in Parve is one they will thank us for. I want them to have a country to return to. I want you all to have a place to live and bring up your families that is free of torment and terror. And if I can’t do that, I will die in the trying.’ He raised his hand to stop the cheering before it started.
‘I know you may want to shout, but the enemy are not far behind and we need the element of surprise. That and a miracle. Remember the faces of those either side of you. One of them could be your saviour this morning just as you might be theirs. Look out for them and they will look out for you.
‘You all know what you are being asked to do. You know the signals. All I ask you to do is fight hard, keep believing in Balaia and take as many of those bastards down with you as you can!
‘To your positions, and be ready.’
Chapter 33
The Protectors surged into the Wesmen warriors at the edge of the rubble that marked the boundary of Parve, a weapon in each hand. Styliann kept a cordon of ten around him as he walked behind the line, both to protect him from flank attack and for shielding. But so far the Shamen had ignored him, focusing their energy on the Protectors who sought to batter their way through the ferocious but thin lines of Wesmen warriors.
The Lord of the Mount of Xetesk formed his mana shape with care as he arrived in range. Shamen cut three Protectors to pieces, eight of them concentrating black fire, slicing through shields and ripping into armour, flesh and mask. They died without a sound, the remaining closing ranks and fighting harder.
‘HellFire,’ snarled Styliann.
Eight columns of fire scorched from the clear sky, exploding on the casting Shamen, who, choosing to ignore the threat, were unshielded. The fire simply blew them apart, spattering burning flesh and clothing over the lines of warriors in front of them.
Next, Styliann cast a trio of FlameOrbs into the midst of the Wesmen, his honed, efficient use of mana maintaining his stamina level high. He was beginning to enjoy himself, watching Shamen and Wesmen alike burn and die. In front of him, the Protectors had formed a wedge as the Wesmen attempted to flank them, driving hard into the front of the line and forcing it back. To Styliann, the next move was obvious.
He moved up behind the wedge, the bludgeoning power of his Protectors halting the Wesmen advance. At a glance, they seemed to be no more than normal sword and axe men, but looking for more than a few seconds revealed so much more. There was a fluidity about each individual strike that allowed for no errors in an opponent’s defence, but on top of that, the strikes chosen by each Protector exactly counter-pointed those of the one either side. Never did they tangle axes, never was one blow blocked by another, and the steel rained down unremitting on the Wesmen.
As he watched, the back of his mind preparing the spell to break the line at the rear, Styliann saw so many Wesmen fall for the loss of so few Protectors. To the right, one died as his block of a sword thrust left his neck open to the following axe blade and his head was struck from his body, which collapsed showering blood over his comrades. In the centre, a Wesmen warrior was driven back by the point of a blade square in the sternum. The Protector dragged the blade clear, blocked a strike to his head with the flat of his axe without seeming to look and opened the throat of the next man before he could raise his sword.
They were breaking through, but not quickly enough. The Shamen, scattered by the violent deaths of eight of their number, had regrouped and, with two clearly shielding seven others, had begun casting the black fire again, success limited by the close form of the Protectors.
The core mana shape formed, Styliann stopped moving and concentrated hard, his echelon of Protectors moving close, completely surrounding him. The battle faded in Styliann’s ears as the edges of the shape formed, the slow rotation started, the colours, vibrant blue and orange, flashed across its surface and the final additions and adjustments were made. He fed in strength and concentration, opened his eyes and cast, knowing his Protectors would do exactly the right thing in response.
Piles of rubble around the Wesmen lines began shaking, dislodging loose stone to roll down to ground level. The vibrations passed into the ground, rippling the top soil under their feet, unbalancing many and scaring many more. Then they moved deeper, and the earth grumbled. The Protectors, knowing the spell, fought on.
When Styliann was satisfied the mana had reached the right depth, he completed the casting.
‘Hammer,’ he said, jerking his fists close into his chest.
There was a thud, deep and resounding. At its sound, the Protectors broke formation and scattered, leaving the Wesmen cleaving fresh air, confusion rife.
The ground beneath the Wesmen lines heaved on a square about twenty yards each side. The earth cracked and parted. Huge slabs of stone rocketed from beneath, sending Wesmen in all directions. A dozen and more slabs thrust upwards, carrying dust and earth with them which skittered on the surface and fell as they came to a stop, quivering, tasting the air for the first time. Wesmen and Shamen ran for the security of steady ground, shields and black fire lost as the target of Styliann’s spell bucked and heaved, sending up gouts of trapped air.
And even before it had stopped and the Wesmen had time to understand the situation, Styliann and the Protectors were through the broken lines, hacking down unbalanced enemies. It was only a half-mile to the pyramid and, Styliann conceded to himself, time to lend The Raven a hand.
Darrick thundered across the Torn Wastes at the head of his cavalry. He had no idea what he would find. For all he knew, The Raven were already there, or two days behind, or dead. If it was either of the latter two, Balaia was finished. So his relief when one of his elf scouts riding beside him reported seeing The Raven to the south-east of them was great indeed. He signalled the change in direction and headed straight for them.
Hirad smiled broadly as Ilkar confirmed it was the four-College cavalry heading their way.
‘Now that,’ said Thraun, ‘is what is known as a happy coincidence. ’
‘About time we had some luck,’ said Hirad. ‘And it’s not that much of a coincidence. We all knew the target time to get here; he’s just running a little late, that’s all.’
The Raven hadn’t moved on since seeing the Wesmen on the borders of Parve. Hirad had been ready to attempt the ride through their lines but the arrival of the cavalry gave them the luxury of a far better option. To the left, fire lit up the sky and a heavy explosion sounded. It was followed by two more flashes and a second dull detonation.
‘Styliann’s busy, I see,’ said Ilkar.
‘He’s a brilliant mage,’ said Denser.
‘He’s got a temper on him, I’ll give him that.’ Ilkar watched the afterglow of the HellFire and FlameOrbs fading against the light of the new day. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in the middle of all that.’
Darrick rode up, the cavalry reining to a halt behind him. He leapt from his horse to greet The Raven, clasping Hirad’s shoulders as the barbarian slid from his horse, a smile splitting his face.
‘This is where it ends,’ the General said. ‘The sight of you tells me we will be victorious. Thank the Gods you are alive.’
‘What did you expect?’ said Hirad, grasping the back of Darrick’s neck with one hand and shaking the General’s head, laughing. ‘I knew you’d make it and I’m glad to see your confidence is unbowed, but we’ve still got to breach the perimeter.’
‘What’s your view, General?’ asked The Unknown. ‘Styliann and the Protectors are at the south-eastern border and fighting, as you can see. They’ll be through to the square and the pyramid within
half an hour.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Darrick, frowning.
‘Just trust him, he’ll be right,’ said Hirad.
‘Very well. I need to punch a hole through the lines to let you through. That shouldn’t be much of a problem. Once you’re in, I’ll take on any pursuers but you’ll be largely on your own for the rest of the ride to the pyramid. Selyn reported it full of Acolytes when she saw it, so take care. I’ll get to the square as quickly as possible, but I think I’m better used mopping up Wesmen. All right?’
‘Just tell us where you want us.’
‘Ride at the rear of the column. When it breaks, keep to the centre of the charge line. I don’t expect you to wait if you see a gap.’
In response to Darrick’s orders, the cavalry began moving off towards Parve at a gentle trot, four abreast, The Raven attached to its rear.
Darrick breathed in, feeling the cool air in his chest. This was the fight he really wanted. He signalled an increase in tempo and the three-hundred-strong cavalry accelerated to a canter. At a quarter of a mile he ordered the break. From the four-wide column, the cavalry formed a line three deep and a hundred wide, mages riding along behind the sword and spear men, shields deployed and, where possible, overlapping.
‘Charge!’ yelled Darrick, and the four-College cavalry sprang to the gallop, riding straight at the Wesmen lines. The two forces met head on, the first line of Wesmen going down hard under the spears, the blades and the hoofs of the cavalry horses. In the centre, Darrick half wheeled his mount, striking his enemy through the chest and ripping his blade clear as the man crashed to the ground. All around him was the clash of metal on metal, the neighing of horses, the calls and orders, the grunting and the shouting, the screaming and the crying. Behind the lines, the Shamen cast their black fire, tearing holes in his men and horses where the shields could not hold them. The Wytch Lord magic users would have to go, and quickly.
Beside him, a man was dragged from his horse by two Wesmen. Immediately, Darrick reared his horse, the animal’s front hoofs catching one a fatal blow on the side of his head. The other turned in surprise, only to feel the cavalryman’s sword in his back. Darrick swung his sword again, missing but forcing an enemy back far enough to allow his man the chance to remount. There was no time for thanks.
Behind the fight, The Raven looked for the weak point in the Wesmen lines. Hirad was fidgeting, knowing he’d rather be there in the thick of the mayhem, lending his blade to the mêlée. The Unknown spurred his horse and trotted right.
‘This’ll be it,’ he said. ‘Be ready.’ He was indicating a point some twenty yards to the right of where Darrick was fighting. There, the Wesmen were falling back under the weight of assault and the Shamen had run for cover, their spells having foundered on the shields of the eastern Balaians.
As they watched, the cavalry surged forwards and Hirad could see daylight in front of them.
‘Shield up,’ said Ilkar.
‘Raven!’ called Hirad. ‘Raven with me!’
At a single blast of a horn, the air above Varhawk Crags was filled with arrows and HotRain. Scything through unprotected and unwary Wesmen, steel-tip and fire caused awful damage and brought the march to a halt. Immediately, Wesmen broke ranks left and right and began climbing and scrambling after their attackers while below them, Shamen prepared shields and their nightmare magics.
A second blast of the horn. Blackthorne and Gresse charged around the northern edge of the crags and slammed into the front ranks of the Wesmen, carving a channel seven men deep before they were halted. With all the mages in the crags left and right casting attack spells, there was no shield on any man and the Shamen, if they couldn’t be stopped, would kill whoever they liked.
Up in the crags, more fire was cast down upon the milling lines of Wesmen, caught in a steep-sided gully only thirty yards wide. After the first volley of arrows, the archers concentrated fire on the Shamen, picking off as many as they could before the shields went up. Others shot down the scrambling Wesmen.
At the head of the crags, the fighting was intense. The Wesmen had regrouped and pressed hard. Blackthorne, a wound in his leg, turned his horse and shouldered his way left and away, still slicing down at the enemy as he went. Gresse had been overtaken by younger men and horses, and for now was merely a spectator. He decided to press backwards and wait for his breath. Then the fire struck.
Left and right, white bolts arced into the walls of the crags while forwards, black lines of death leapt from Shamen fingertips, seeking bodies to rip and tear. Beside Gresse, a man’s eyes exploded outwards as the black fire caught him square in the centre of the forehead. He went down thrashing and twitching. All around now, men and beasts were being slaughtered, but the Wesmen lines were backing off. Gresse changed his mind, dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, yelled men to his side and went after the Shamen.
Crags exploded, sending boulders, mages and archers tumbling. But while the western magic stopped, the Shamen had caused their own disaster as rock avalanched down, sweeping away men and crushing them against each other and the ground.
At the front of the lines, Blackthorne’s men redoubled their efforts, hacking their way through Wesmen. Gresse and his men were almost on a knot of Shamen busy preparing new spells and not seeing the danger they were in. Gresse swatted one man aside with an overhead to the chest. Beside him, one was cut from his horse and died under a welter of blows. The old Baron spurred his horse, trampled the last man aside and rode for the Shamen. As he raised his sword to strike, they opened their eyes and their fingers crackled with black fire.
The Raven hit the streets of Parve and galloped for the square. Behind them, Darrick and his cavalry were grinding the Wesmen down but taking heavy casualties themselves.
Hirad and The Unknown headed the gallop with Denser right behind them. At the rear, Thraun kept station, with the rest in the middle. Down empty streets they raced, towards the beacon fires that crested the pyramid, breaking into the square from the north. It was full of Acolytes.
Ignoring the battles behind them, hundreds of red cloaks swayed and intoned, the hum of their voices loud in the sound bowl that was the centre of Parve. There had to be five hundred of them, sitting in ordered rows, the first of which was a good hundred yards distant of the tunnel entrance.
‘Go! Go!’ yelled Hirad as The Raven threatened to slow. He ploughed on around the side of the square, turning left for the pyramid as the first Acolyte sounded the note of warning. The humming stopped, to be replaced by shouts of anger. The Raven rode on, Hirad slipping from his horse by the tunnel entrance and sweeping his sword through the stomach of one of the guards that flanked it. The second made it no further than The Unknown’s blade.
Behind them, the rest of The Raven dismounted, the horses cantering away with Denser’s at their head. For a time, the crowd simply stood and watched the invasion of their temple, but as The Raven looked to disappear into the gloom, the Acolytes mobbed and ran at them. Like a wave rushing at the shore, the red tide surged towards them, yelling their fury, their numbers simply overwhelming, the intent clear in a thousand eyes.
‘Great Gods in the sky,’ breathed Hirad. ‘What now?’
‘You and Denser, get to the tomb. We’ll hold them as long as we can and pray Darrick and Styliann arrive before they tear us limb from limb.’
‘No, Unknown,’ began Hirad, ‘I’m not lea—’
‘This is for Balaia now, Hirad. The one thing bigger than The Raven. Go!’ He turned to face the Acolytes, Thraun one side of him, Jandyr and Will to the right. Erienne and Ilkar stood behind.
‘You come back to me, Denser,’ warned Erienne. They clasped hands briefly before the Dawnthief mage and his bodyguard sprinted away along the tunnel, The Unknown’s orders in their ears and the sound of his sword point tapping on stone echoing away before them into the torchlit gloom.
The black fire drilled into Gresse’s horse just below the breast plate. The animal screamed and collap
sed, an awful keening sound of pain not comprehended. Gresse was pitched hard to the floor, his head connecting with stone.
Behind him, Blackthorne, his wound stemmed with bright red cloth, saw the fall of his friend. Calling men to him, he drove back into the battle while all around him the black fire scorched through bodies and tore flesh and armour apart. The mêlée was confused now, with loose horses causing danger to everyone. The Wesmen lines were buckled and broken by boulder and sword alike but Blackthorne’s men had no magic and the Shamen were slowly changing the odds. The Baron kicked on, promising himself that if he couldn’t save Gresse, he’d complete the job the older man had started. The Shamen had to die.
Hirad and Denser ran along the tunnel. It was lit by braziers along the walls and carved in runes over the whole of its length. Behind him, the barbarian heard the sound of battle being joined by The Raven and he prayed he’d find them all alive again. The tunnel was two hundred yards long, and at the end of it, double doors stood closed. They were plain and heavy, with great brass handles either side at chest height.
As he approached, Hirad’s limbs took on a heaviness he hadn’t experienced since his fight with Isman in the Black Wings’ castle. Evil weighed on his muscles, pawed at his heart and dragged at his courage, enticing him to turn and run. The power of the Wytch Lords ran from the walls, fuelled the braziers and seeped into the air he breathed. The barbarian felt as if some giant hand was pressed on his forehead, pushing him back. It was Denser who broke the spell, the sound of his breath in Hirad’s ear as they reached the doors, the pulsating of his aura as he neared his ultimate goal blowing the evil aside.
Revitalised, Hirad pushed the left-hand door open and ran inside, Denser right behind him. They were in the pyramid; the architecture was different. Either side of a long flight of stone stairs, great slabs of mixed marble and stone rose into the gloom above their heads. The stairs were a good twenty feet wide and lit by pairs of torches resting in free-standing three-legged iron posts. The torch posts stood on every other of the forty steps. Two Guardians stood at the top, dressed in red cloaks and chainmail, each with a long curved blade - ceremonial but effective.
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