The sergeant wrung out the cloth in Blackthorne's basin and folded it for a compress.
'He's not got a fever, man!' snapped the Baron. 'Bank and light the fire. Quickly.'
Blackthorne pulled the covers to Luke's neck and sat on the bed. He used the cloth to clean away the worst of the blood, feeling Luke's icy skin.
'Hang on, lad. Hang on. It'll pass.'
'Not going anywhere,' said Luke faintly.
'Good.'
There was a tentative knock on the door. He shouted them in, two healers.
'Don't let him die. We need him. I need him.'
Blackthorne ran from his chambers. He had to know what he still controlled, what forces were still under his command. At every turn, the prognosis became less palatable and it forced him to consider three questions. Why had they suddenly become so very much stronger; why had they pulled back if they were really as strong as they appeared; and when would they be back to deal the fatal blow?
Until that afternoon, his ColdRoom shell had covered about a third of the area of his town; and they had held it comfortably. He was now having to come to terms with the fact that he was a prisoner in his own castle. Luke had not been exaggerating and Blackthorne was thankful that enough order remained for a watchful defence perimeter to be in place. He owed Darrick particularly and his determination that they set up multiple overlapping defensive cells. He'd probably never have the opportunity to thank him personally.
Blackthorne took a longer look in the infirmary the second time around. The once calm and quiet whitewashed chamber was awash with noise and blood. It echoed to the cries of the injured and fading, the exhortations of healers and the squeal of metal on stone as cots were dragged from examination to treatment and, if the incumbent was fortunate, recovery. Every inch of floor space was covered with his warriors, mages and ordinary townspeople. They lay on makeshift pillows, were propped against walls and pillars and cradled in the arms of loved ones.
He paused to offer comfort to those he could and promise resources to the healers if he could muster any. Hot water and clean cloth were in desperately short supply.
Clattering down to the kitchens, he found some cause for hope. Deep in the bowels of the castle, with their chimneys grilled and venting smoke into the foundations and caves, they had escaped the attack. Food was being prepared, water was boiling and a bucket chain was in operation from the trio of wells. Blackthorne nodded approval at the level of guards in this room that now found itself the hub of operations.
He shook hands, patted backs and spoke encouragement. It was
crucial he was visible. Gods, half the castle probably didn't know if he was dead or alive. He toured quickly; checked the stable block, assessed the condition of horses and mages, the courtyard where guards still walked but where anxiety had replaced confidence and where twos had replaced threes and fours, and the periphery of the shell. He felt its closeness and tried to count the demons.
They were still there but they had suffered huge losses. Black-thorne and his people had given them a real bloody nose but at great cost. Surely, the demons, even if they were temporarily depleted which he doubted, could simply reinforce. His numbers were severely diminished and they knew it. Yet there were no taunts, no displays and no shows of strength or intent. The town was quiet. So quiet that they were barely even being watched.
Later, having completed his tour of the grounds, gardens and buildings still in his gift, he went back to his chambers and sat with Luke. The boy's eyes bored into the ceiling while he spoke.
'What would your assessment be … it could be worse? That about covers it. We have the mage strength to cycle our casters. We have the secure area for mana replenishment and we have access to food and water; the latter indefinitely, the former for another forty days at least.
'It would have been fewer but I'm afraid our losses have been steep. We might have a shell over the castle but realistically, we can't defend much more than the kitchens, stables, ground chambers and banqueting hall. We should really relocate the infirmary too. If we do that, I feel we can hold out until there is no food in our bellies. We're still strong, we have our belief. But we can't break out though. We don't have the people any more. At least, I don't think so.
'Your opinion would have been so valuable. Your insight and organisation too. And most of all, your optimism. I'm sorry I left you, Luke. I'll grieve when I am alone.'
Blackthorne reached over and closed Luke's eyes. He turned to look properly at the bodies of the healers and the sergeant he had brought up here only to die.
T am moved almost to tears, but I cannot cry. Was that speech for me or for him? He with the glorious soul that so sates me now.'
'His name was Luke and it was for us all,' said Blackthorne, standing.
'And do you believe it? Truly?' Ferouc moved from the shadows, wings furled at his back, his colour a resonant, relaxed deep green. 'Or have I finally convinced you that this futile struggle is at an end?'
'It's funny, you know. Had you come to me as I walked outside instead of this,' Blackthorne indicated the broken shutter, T might have had half a mind to agree with you. But you have just killed the wrong man and now I will fight you to the very last. Do you find that funny, Fidget? What drives men on?'
Ferouc's colour flared briefly bright. Its fingers clacked together.
'Beware your insults, Baron Blackthorne. You are unarmed.'
'And you are within my shield. Weak. Vulnerable.' Blackthorne moved towards the demon. 'Want to find out who would prevail?'
'Just one lingering touch, human.'
'Do you really believe I would succumb that easily?' Blackthorne found he had no fear of the creature. Powerful though it was, he could feel only a brooding anger and determination. It gave him true courage and a line to every like-minded man and woman across Balaia. It was the perfect defence. T am Baron Blackthorne. No one dominates me. No one takes from me what I am.'
Ferouc's hands clasped together and in its throat, it forced a dry rasp.
'It is a shame for Balaia that not all humans are so strong. Even so, you can be defeated. Broken.'
Blackthorne saw the reavers float in through the twisted shutter. Three of them.
'We have won, Baron Blackthorne. Our strength is too much for you even inside your shell now. But believe me, surrender is painless.'
Blackthorne snatched the dagger from his pocket sheath, backhanded it across the throat of the nearest creature. The demon crashed backwards, dying quickly, and Blackthorne moved into the space and to the door. He felt small gratification at the genuine surprise on Ferouc's face and the lightening of its colour.
'Every Baron has enemies, Fidget, and none ever walk unarmed,' he said. 'We will prevail. The Raven and die elves will beat you and you will die never having taken my casde or tasted my soul.',
He took the stairs down three at a time, bellowing for his guards.
The furious barks split the Besharan sky. Immediately, the choreographed grace of the mock attack pattern dissolved. Broods pulsed and called their dragons together. Sha-Kaan watched helplessly while across die arena the structure broke up. Gost climbed high and circled. Stara bunched and gave themselves space in their homeland direction. Skoor sank into a cloud layer, taking on a defensive pattern.
Smaller broods scattered to the winds and the orb. Dragons bumped and barged. Flames lit up the fading day. Several dragons could be seen spiralling from the sky, trailing smoke. Tension flared, sudden anger drove the mood. Naik and Kaan dragons flew into the gap, appealing for calm.
From the south, Sha-Kaan watched the clutch of Brood Koli approach. None could fail to feel the fury that they pulsed into the psyche. And all knew instantly at whom it was directed. Space widened around the Skoor, who protested innocence and defiance in equal measure. Sha-Kaan requested Yasal follow him and he soared away to join the gathering of both their broods.
'There must be no conflict whatever the crime,' he pulsed. 'Surround the Skoor. Yasal,
please, with me to the Koli.'
'Of course,' said Yasal.
The forces of the Naik and Kaan flew onto the cloud bank where the Skoor waited. The psyche was packed with disgust, betrayal and anger, and tinged with a little conciliation.
Sha-Kaan felt a burgeoning sense of inevitability. Tension and grievance had taken longer to surface than he had anticipated. His naivety had been in beginning to think they'd escape without serious trouble. Flying towards the onrushing Koli, just seven of them, Sha could see flights of dragons from almost every brood detach and fly for their Broodlands. He had been tempted to do the same.
'Slow,' he pulsed to the Koli. 'Slow.'
They ignored him, powering on and adjusting to fly by the two emissaries for peace. Yasal angled away too, Sha letting him go and continuing on his trajectory to bring him into formation with them rather than bar their passage.
'Falon-Koli, you will stop and you will talk. You cannot reach them.'
'Do not try and stop me, Sha-Kaan,' pulsed Falon. 'This is not your concern.'
'Every conflict is my concern at this time,' said Sha, letting irritation enter his tone. 'We work for all our futures.'
'I have no future!' roared Falon. 'The Skoor have attacked our Broodlands. We are destroyed. We are all that is left.'
Another pulse flooded Sha.
'We trusted you, Sha-Kaan, and we have been betrayed. You fight for your future. All we have left is revenge.'
'No,' said Yasal, his pulse angry. 'You must not attack. You must not risk all that we are building.'
'You build nothing,' spat Falon-Koli. 'Alliance based on lies and rumours. Where is your threat, Sha-Kaan? I will tell you. It is the Skoor. And they have used you to destroy us. We will die but we will exact revenge. It is all we have.'
'One more time. Slow. Please.'
Sha-Kaan was cruising in a high arc above them now. Closing fast. Yasal bored up from below on intercept.
'Stop us and feel our flame.'
At a signal, the seven Koli split. Sha-Kaan bellowed his frustration. He pulsed his brood as Yasal would be doing. Skoor scattered from their cloud base. One hundred and seventy-five of them; completely overwhelming for the Kofi.
'Flame take you, Caval-Skoor,' he pulsed. 'What have you done?'
'What we had to,' came the calm reply. 'And now the task will be completed and you will have my attention.'
Caval had broadcast to all that might hear. A flood of enraged responses filled the psyche. They would not fly with the Skoor; they had put aside their disputes; they would side with the Kofi to drive the Skoor from the skies.
Naik and Kaan dragons begged for calm while they aligned themselves for defence. Sha-Kaan, his heart thundering in the centre of his body, felt the hope drain from him. He roared again, blasting flame into the empty sky. Koli and Skoor closed on one another, calls of hate, taunts of death sounding loud. Broods across the sky formed into attack and defence formations. Stara and Gost packed
together. The smaller broods gathered, some already flew in the slipstream of the few Koli. The first flames struck, the first jaws clamped on.
'Yasal, break away. Don't put yourself into this. Kaan, to the heights.'
The Broods Kaan and Naik spiralled upwards. Sha-Kaan heard the screeches of burned dragons and he closed his eyes.
'Please,' he pulsed to any that would listen. 'Pull away. Tanis-Veret, Koln-Stara, Eram-Gost. All of you who would save our dimension pull away. Join us in the heights.'
But the deafening roars of battle below tolled at him that they were lost.
Chapter 29
The Raven had been aware the elven-led Julatsan force was approaching long before they could see it. Auum had brought them slightly south of Triverne Lake to a hidden position overlooking the route of the wagons.
It was largely a psychological cover point. True, the crag formation gave them a sight and attack barrier from everywhere but head-on; but The Raven had a signature that the demons craved and they would sense it long before they needed their eyes. The risk was a calculated one. Denser considered the density of mage souls would be enough to deflect their attention for long enough to allow a clear run in.
For some time, they had been watching the demons tracking the train, swarming and swooping to attack in their hundreds. Spells had flared and bludgeoned in response. The low roar of order, combat and movement had been a constant companion. But only now was the picture complete.
Coming into view on the crest of a long, shallow rise, the first wagons were picked out in late-afternoon silhouette. They were no more than a mile away. Hirad could see elves shadowing each wagon as well as those that rode canvas roofs and running plates.
Demons clustered in the sky above and battled inside the Cold-Room shell as the train made its ponderous progress towards Xetesk, pace governed by the fragile concentration of the casters within the wagons. The mages without whom the allies would be overwhelmed.
Yellow light washed out from just behind the crest of the hill. Demons screeched and scattered. Some fell, spiralling helplessly, others dived on the casters.
'How are they doing that?' asked Hirad.
'Rebraal must have spaced the ColdRooms,' said Erienne. 'Created mana-rich areas.'
'Fascinating,' said Denser. 'If you consider that mana is channelled over the outsides of the shells, it'll create areas of real density if the spacing is right.'
Hirad looked across at him. 'We really must talk about it some more. I'd so love to learn.'
'You are such a heathen, Coldheart,' said Denser. 'It's a very clever idea. Nothing you'd ever dream up.'
'Risky, isn't it?' said Darrick.
'Only if they hang around once they've cast,' said Erienne.
Hirad watched the fighting inside the shell and couldn't help but smile. From this distance it was impossible to identify facial features but it hardly mattered. A demon attack went in. A swarm of tiny demons Auum identified as strike-strain, and that Hirad recognised only too well, were backed by the man-size reavers.
The strike-strain were there to cause confusion where they could and they plunged straight for the wagon drivers. And there they met the defence. The elves, deliberate, graceful and always on the offensive. And their human companions, those that had survived this far, frenzied, panicked and forever on the back foot. That was why Rebraal needed The Raven. To give the humans focus and belief.
'How many wagons set out?' he asked.
'Fifteen,' said Auum.
'Dear Gods burning,' said Hirad.
The end of the train was in sight. Eight wagons remained.
'They'll be here in less than half an hour,' said Denser.
'Know that for a fact, do you?' said Hirad.
'Educated guess.'
'Hardly matters. We need to get in there and get involved. We've done enough hanging around. We've-'
'Hirad, are you all right?' Erienne's hand was on his neck.
'I-'
The full force of the rage hit him then. He knew he was falling but he was helpless to save himself. His body was suffused with the strength of Sha-Kaan's fury and he had no option but to let it wash him away.
'Sha-Kaan,' he managed. T can't-'
The Great Kaan was close to losing control. The frustrations and anger thudded around Hirad's skull, rendering him helpless. He was dimly aware of his friends spealdng to him, touching him, but he had no way of responding. He gathered the vestiges of his consciousness to him and did the only tiling he could.
'Sha-Kaan, stop. You're killing me.'
Abruptly, the hammering of emotion within him ceased but did not allow him to return to consciousness.
'Skies take them, they are destroying all our hopes.' Sha-Kaan's words flooded his senses. Hirad felt his despair and impotence.
'Who?' he asked into the void.
Sha-Kaan sighed, a sonorous exhalation laced with sorrow. 'It would take so long to explain. Since you're unexpectedly at rest, I will grant you this. See through my
eyes. Feel what I feel.'
Hirad experienced an acute sensation of falling. He felt the ground disappear and a sense of vastness take its place. Cold air channelled across his body and every nerve and fibre was suffused with ancient pain and longing.
He heard the beat of wings, felt their resistance against the air, their driving power. His nostrils caught the harsh scents of wood and oil, the smell of wrecked, burned flesh. He could taste something acrid and sour in his mouth. His mind reeled under the weight of emotion pressing from every direction. And finally, he opened his eyes and drank in the skies of Beshara.
What he saw chilled his bones. Beneath him, as Sha-Kaan's head swept around to give him the panorama, the sky was a mixture of flashing scales, blinding yellow flame and dark smoke, torn by the winds of the upper skies. The battering roar of mouths disgorging fire swept up to him on a tide of fury so intense it shuddered him.
Hirad couldn't begin to count the dragons intent on destruction below. He recalled the sight he had seen in these same skies at the time of the Noonshade rip but it was a mere skirmish compared to this.
'Almost a thousand dragons chase a petty squabble and damage us all such that we may never recover,' toned Sha-Kaan. 'And outside our dimension, the Arakhe will be sensing it all. Fire this intense and the temptation of dragons to switch out of the battle and move into inter-dimensional space to escape could open the door to them.'
The noise from below was truly extraordinary. A flight of Skoor, twenty strong and glittering sand-yellow, curved in a tight arc and drove through the left flank of their enemies where they pressured fellow Skoor. Massed in a roughly spherical formation, they tore into their targets. Flame scoured every point of the compass around them. Forward, the lead dragons collided wjth those in their path.
It was a devastating tactic and one being mimicked across the fight. Dragons bellowed and squealed, their wings, bellies and backs scorched and bubbling. Smoke trails criss-crossed. Fangs ripped into necks. Dragons by the dozen fell from the sky. Yet still the Skoor were losing the battle. Outnumbered five to one, their moves couldn't hope to counter the enemy strength for ever. But their pride kept them fighting. The attrition rate was awful.
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