‘I understand.’
‘Excellent. Who shall it be?’ The Protector was silent for a moment, communing with his brothers.
‘Cil.’
‘Give him your strength and your sight. Let him fight fast and true. There must be no error,’ said Styliann.
‘It shall be done.’ The Protector turned. Cil came from the group gathered away from the fire. He walked into the light, polished ebony mask reflecting the yellow flame. Behind the mask, the eyes were impassive, fixed on the four Wesmen who gathered to the left, leaning on their weapons.
Styliann returned to the fire and stood across from Riasu. The tribal Lord was nervous and uncertain, feelings clearly not shared by those he had chosen to fight. Four large men, decked in furs and metal helmets, two carrying longswords, two carrying double-bladed axes. They came to the ready in a loose semicircle as Cil approached, axe in his right hand, longsword in the left.
The Protector, in heavy leather and chain, stood well over six feet tall, towering over his thickset, powerful opponents. He stood in an open stance, weapons down and to either side, waiting.
‘You can save your men,’ said Styliann. Riasu half smiled and shook his head.
‘They will save themselves,’ he said. ‘Fight!’
The Wesmen moved to encircle Cil, who stood motionless, not even acknowledging the two who flanked him. His head was straight, taking in the axemen who came at him from the front, weapons in two hands, wary, slightly crouched. At a signal from an axeman, one of those behind sprang forward, aiming a blow at Cil’s broad back. The Protector lashed out with his axe, blocking the sweep, blade ending close to the ground. He hadn’t turned or moved his feet. The man fell back and the circling began.
Styliann folded his arms across his chest. It was a matter of waiting for them to run to their own deaths and suddenly he forgot his desire to see no blood spilt. Perhaps this display was what the Wesmen needed. A little reminder that taking Understone and its Pass meant little to the mages of Xetesk.
Cil had returned to his open stance, body absolutely still. He was, Styliann knew, listening to his brothers, feeling the ground beneath his feet and tasting the air around him.
Deciding numbers would win the day, the Wesmen attacked together, angling in from all four corners. Like two men, Cil blocked the first axe with his longsword while sweeping out and behind with his axe, catching one swordsman high in the head. The Wesman’s intended blow never came and he clattered to the earth, blood and brain oozing from his skull.
Bringing his axe back sharply, he caught his next enemy’s overhead on his blade and, while twisting to disarm him, placed his longsword parallel to his back to block the fourth man. Cil pulled on his axe shaft, dragging the helpless Wesman off balance. Now he moved his feet for the first time, quarter-turning left, throwing the caught axeman hard into his companion. Both men fell to the ground.
He turned again, this time to fend a stab to his side and bring his axe through, waist high, chopping through the Wesman’s stomach and angling out and up through his rib cage, carrying gore in a wide arc as he rounded on the remaining two. They scrabbled to their feet but he was on them so fast, batting right with the flat of his axe into one’s face while piercing the other’s heart. Before Styliann could order him to stop, he had beheaded the last man.
Finished, he returned to his open stance, blood streaming from his weapons into the dust, carnage surrounding him and a shocked silence falling on the arena of sudden slaughter.
Styliann turned to Riasu who stared open-mouthed at the corpses of his men.
‘Now, think if all of my men were fighting and I backed it with my magic,’ he said. ‘It was you who wanted this, not me.’
Riasu faced him, fear in his eyes, fury in his body and humiliation burning from every pore.
‘You will die for this.’ Riasu chopped his hand down and arrows flew from the top of the stockade, arcing over the fire to where the Protectors stood in tight formation, their eyes on Cil. The shafts flashed in the late afternoon light, every one bouncing harmlessly from Styliann’s ready deployed HardShield.
‘You are testing me,’ said Styliann. ‘And that is good. But now, I will talk with Lord Tessaya.’
‘Do not think to give me orders,’ said Riasu, his face an angry snarl.
‘Pick your next words with care,’ warned Styliann. ‘You are far from your two thousand men.’
Riasu’s eyes betrayed his anxiety, flicking over the situation in which he found himself, too close to a dozen Protectors for comfort and knowing his like number of guards would be no match whatever. ‘I will send word to Tessaya that you wish to talk.’
‘Good. I have no wish to see more blood spilled.’
Riasu nodded curtly and turned to go. Styliann’s next words froze him in his tracks.
‘I will give you until this time tomorrow to bring me an answer,’ he said. ‘Or I will have to walk the pass anyway, whether you are with me or against me.’
‘I will not forget what you have done, Styliann, Lord of Xetesk. And there will come a time when you are alone. Fear that time,’ said Riasu. He stalked across the dirt back towards the stockade, his guards lingering to look at their fallen tribesmen.
‘Take their bodies,’ said Styliann. ‘He will not harm you.’ Cil cleaned and sheathed his weapons and returned to the mass of the Protectors. Styliann looked after the retreating form of Riasu and sat back down by the fire. Poor fool. He would find out, probably to his cost, that no Xetesk mage, particularly not one so senior, was ever alone.
Chapter 12
The Raven trotted north along the gully in which they had made their temporary camp. Will’s stove, cooled sufficiently by earth and boot, was packed in its leather coverings and was once more on Thraun’s back. The shapechanger led the group, The Unknown at his shoulder. Hirad brought up the rear, sandwiching Denser, Ilkar, Erienne and Will between the warriors.
They had discussed a variety of options to liberate a boat but the simplest, to send in the mages under a CloakedWalk to steal a boat and bring it upstream was dismissed for the simplest of reasons; neither knew one end of a boat from the other. Further, it was the cause of passing mirth when Ilkar admitted that not only had he never learned to swim but that he was actively scared of water. Besides, The Raven wanted to cause some damage.
Ultimately, Denser had reluctantly agreed to Ilkar’s original plan but Hirad harboured worries. Denser was not thinking straight and that could mean great danger for Ilkar as the two mages scaled the watch-tower.
Any sabotage would follow the commandeering of a suitable boat. The fireworks Ilkar had in mind would blow their cover and require a quick getaway but the vote had carried. All were aware of the urgency of their mission but Ilkar in particular was keen to disrupt supply to the attack on the Colleges.
From the top of the gully’s northern end, the way down was rocky but firm and led towards the edge of the sheer cliff, at the base of which tumbles of stone jutted from the water. They kept to the base of the cliff, hugging its shadow as it curved towards the camp until Thraun called a halt beyond the periphery of likely Wesmen vision. The night was dark this low on the ground and it was little more than a hundred yards to the first tent of the encampment. For now, they were out of sight of the tower and secure. A few yards further on, the ground fell away and would leave them exposed.
‘We will follow on in three hundred counts unless we hear sounds of trouble,’ said Thraun. ‘You know the meeting point. Are you ready?’ Ilkar nodded. Denser shrugged.
‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. Hirad stared at him bleakly.
‘Concentrate on your position, Denser,’ he said. ‘Any lapse could kill you both and that would be unforgivable.’
‘I haven’t lost my eyesight or sense,’ said Denser.
‘Just your sense of purpose,’ said Ilkar.
‘Nor my respect for my friends,’ continued Denser, staring hard at Ilkar.
‘I’m glad to hear it. R
ight. Let’s get going.’
Ilkar and Denser intoned quietly, moving their hands up and down their bodies. With a curt nod, Denser walked forward a pace and disappeared. Ilkar followed him and Hirad could hear them talking low as they moved off.
‘Gods, he’d better not let me down,’ said Hirad.
‘He won’t,’ said Erienne. ‘If nothing else he isn’t stupid.’
‘Just stubborn, difficult and bloody miserable,’ said Hirad.
‘Nobody’s perfect.’ Erienne smiled but it was forced and unhappy.
‘No.’ Hirad looked towards the Wesmen encampment.
As agreed, Ilkar took the lead with Denser right behind him, one finger hooked in his belt. The CloakedWalks wreathed their bodies in invisibility but did not muffle their sound and Ilkar kept to bare earth, being careful to skirt the waist-high plains grass that edged the cliffs and grew in patches across the ground and away up the slope where they had first taken in the camp.
‘Don’t stop when we hit the ladder,’ said Denser.
‘I won’t,’ said Ilkar a little sharply. ‘I am aware of the limitations of the spell. And keep your voice down.’
‘My pleasure,’ hissed Denser.
‘What the hell has happened to you, Denser?’ whispered Ilkar, all his ire gone.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ replied the Dark Mage, his voice quiet and vulnerable.
‘Try me.’
‘Later. Are you going left or right in the tower?’
‘Left, as agreed.’
‘Just checking,’ said Denser.
The camp was quiet as they approached, passing the peripheral tents pitched around their standards. The two mages slowed. From the nearest tent, the sounds of snoring filtered through the canvas. Across the camp, a horse whinnied and the unmistakable odour of pig filth drifted on the wind which gusted and swirled through the camp, rattling tentage, tightening rope on peg and blowing the odd snatch of conversation from tower or central fire.
Ilkar appraised their task. From the safety of the gully it had seemed simple enough but, closer to, the watch-tower seemed tall and crowded with powerful Wesmen. Ilkar looked the tower up and down as they neared it, silent now but for their footfalls.
The tower stood about twenty feet high and was constructed from four stout central trunks sunk into the ground and packed at their base with rock for extra stability. A lattice of strengthening timbers criss-crossed their way to the roofed platform on which stood the pair of Wesmen guards. In the left-hand corner of the platform, a bell was fixed to one of the roof supports, its clapper tied off against wind and careless elbow.
‘Remember, the throat or through the eye to the brain. We can’t afford for them to cry out,’ whispered Denser.
‘I know,’ said Ilkar, but inside the knot of nerves tightened. This was not the sort of action he was used to. He’d killed a number of times before but with the sword or with an offensive spell. This, he wasn’t used to at all. ‘I’m going straight up.’
The ladder ran up between the two poles facing into the camp and finished at a gap in the waist-high balustrade that ran around the platform. The two bored guards were leaning on its outward edge, sometimes exchanging low words but mostly quiet.
Ilkar grasped the sides of the ladder, being careful not to lose momentum. The wood creaked alarmingly, his heart missed a beat and his eyes scanned the platform for signs of agitation but the Wesmen seemed not to have heard. For now, at least, the wind was in their favour.
Ilkar’s nerves became a fear which gripped him for a moment. This was a job for a warrior but none of them could hold the spell in place. Even The Unknown, who had operated ShadowWings shortly after his release from the thrall of the Protector calling, could not hope to maintain a CloakedWalk. There was a subtlety to the spell that had to be learned and enjoyed. The ability to hold the mana shape when stationary and visible, and to perform simple tasks while on the move without losing spell concentration, were nuances not quickly mastered. Simple tasks like murder, thought Ilkar grimly.
Five rungs from the top, everything started to go astray. With each step, the new wood protested, not yet bedded to its fastening. Ilkar slowed but there was an inevitability about the head of a curious guard that appeared at the top of the ladder, frowning down into the gloom beneath him, seeing nothing.
Ilkar felt Denser’s hand on the rung his trailing foot was just vacating. They weren’t supposed to get that close - Denser hadn’t slowed, and couldn’t have seen the danger.
‘Move back,’ Ilkar urged the guard under his breath as he climbed inexorably upwards, slowing still further. To slow any more would be to become visible and to become visible would be to die. ‘Move back.’ He made another step, keeping his feet to the ends of the rungs, but another creak cracked the night, deafening to Ilkar’s ears. The Wesman leaned further out, peering down with intense concentration, knowing what he was hearing but confused by what he wasn’t seeing.
Ilkar thought briefly about heading down but the change in direction would give him away, not to mention catching Denser completely unawares. The stupidity of the situation fell about his head.
The guard straightened but did not move from the edge of the platform. Keeping his gaze firmly set on the ladder below him, Ilkar placed his hand on the rung directly beneath the Wesman’s feet and drew his dagger with the other. He really had no other choice.
‘Oh Gods,’ he muttered, and surged upwards, blade before him, taking the guard in the crotch, where it lodged. The man grunted in shock and pain, staggered back a pace and fell to the ground, dragging the dagger from Ilkar’s grasp, clutching between his legs as blood blossomed to stain his leggings.
Ilkar kept moving left, knowing Denser would take the right. As the guard hit the platform with a dull thud, his companion turned, his mouth dropping open at the sight that greeted him. He started to speak but Denser’s thrown dagger caught him clear in the throat, his shout turning to gargles as the blood poured from the wound.
Ilkar looked down at his victim who opened his mouth, a low agonised keening escaping his lips. He crouched, snatched his second dagger and jammed it through the man’s open eye into his brain. He died instantly. The surviving Wesman clutched at the dagger in his throat as he staggered backwards, his jaws moving soundlessly, his eyes wide as Ilkar switched into view.
Too late, the elf saw the danger and even as Denser grabbed at the man, the Wesman’s furs dragging outwards in the Dark Mage’s invisible grip, he tumbled off balance, his arm swinging back where it caught the bell full on, knocking it from its mounting. The guard fell dead, Denser on top of him, but the bell, sounding dully, teetered and plunged over the side of the tower.
‘If we’re lucky . . .’ said Ilkar.
‘No chance,’ returned Denser. The bell struck the rocks at the base of the tower with a loud clang, the clapper breaking free to swipe at its dented surface on its single bounce. The strangled ring sounded right across the camp.
‘At least the others know we made it,’ said Denser.
‘We’re in trouble,’ said Ilkar. ‘Know any Wes?’ Denser shook his head. ‘Big trouble.’
Harsh voices came from the next tower and the beginnings of spreading alarm below them were plain to the ear.
‘Stay down,’ said Denser.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ snapped Ilkar. ‘Any bright ideas?’
‘Yeah, let’s steal a boat, learn to sail and leave the towers alone.’ Denser crawled towards the gap in the balustrade. The shouts from the tower were louder, more urgent. There was a moment’s silence before the bell sounded, calling the camp to wakefulness.
‘Gods falling, what a cock-up,’ said Ilkar, raising his head to look out at the camp. Denser dragged him back down, the light of energy suddenly bright in his eyes.
‘You want sabotage?’ he said. ‘I’ll give you sabotage.’ He closed his eyes and prepared to cast. Ilkar’s face cracked into a smile.
Thraun had unshouldered his pack and was str
ipping off his leather before the sound of the fallen bell registered as trouble in Hirad’s mind.
‘You don’t have to do this, Thraun,’ said Will, his stance edgy, worry lining his face.
‘We must have a diversion or Ilkar and Denser will be killed.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Hirad.
‘There are seven of us against three hundred. We have to give ourselves a fighting chance,’ Thraun said.
‘But that’s not the real reason, is it?’ Will was staring up into Thraun’s yellow-tinged eyes. Anger flickered across them before he shook his head sharply.
‘There’s no time to talk about this now.’ He turned to face Hirad.
‘Don’t wait for me at the shore. I can swim. I’ll find you.’ The shapechanger, naked now, lay down. The Unknown hefted Will’s stove and Thraun’s sword on his back. Will bagged the clothes and armour and slung them over his. ‘Best you get on,’ said Thraun. ‘I’ll catch you up.’
The night was filling with the sounds of anger and confusion. Hirad led The Raven quietly along the edges of the cliff. Soon, the watch-tower was in sight and the shore angled sharply away to their left where the camp was built. Nothing moved on the platform.
‘Where are they?’ In answer, a figure rose in the tower. Denser. His arms moved outwards, then clutched into his chest. Six columns of fire screamed down from the sky, scoring sudden blinding light across the camp. Each one smashed into a store marquee, unleashing frightening devastation.
HellFire. The columns sought souls. Denser had guessed rightly that men or dogs slept inside the marquees, and each column plunged through canvas to gorge itself. Tearing through timber boxes, stacks of cured meats, vegetables, grains, rope and weapons, detonating flour which flashed fire bright within three of the store tents. Their canvas exploded outwards on a wave of air, sending planks, splinters, shards of wood and debris high into the night. Flame burst sideways, sheets of yellow-flecked orange snapping out, catching men and surrounding tents alike. The guards around the camp-fire wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The Raven Collection Page 69