“This is it. It's down to us and we're going to do it, I can feel it.” He stood and spread his arms wide. “We've got this far and we've all lost those we loved. We can't, I can't, let that go. It's payback time.”
Dawn on Balaia's day of judgement broke with fire in the sky. White fire. It scorched along Understone Pass's hastily erected stone and wood defences, which rose half the height of the pass entrance. They had been built to repulse catapult, sword and spear, the pathways running behind them packed with archers. But there was no defence against the white fire. It picked and chewed at the stone, while defenders, having shot their arrows, scrambled for safety.
Twenty Shamen, magically and hard-shielded, stood silent and tore the walls down. But this time the defenders were ready for them, and as the walls came down, two thousand foot soldiers raced from the breach, protective mages keeping pace behind them.
Caught admiring the handiwork of his Shamen, Tessaya could only stand and watch as they and their bodyguards were cut to pieces before Wesmen warriors could get anywhere near them. He ordered battle joined and blood and noise filled the air.
Their initial mission accomplished, the pass defenders fell back in orderly formation, forming a tight half circle around the entrance to the pass. From within, and beyond the range of the Shamen who walked behind the sea of warriors, bolts and stones from low-trajectory catapults and heavy crossbows thrummed overhead, dealing devastation to the rear of the Wesmen lines. FlameOrbs and HotRain lashed into the invaders, either flaring over shield or, where it broke through, spewing flame across the ground and over defenceless bodies. The stench of flesh and the pall of smoke stung the eyes.
The defenders’ lines were holding. The generals of the pass kept a heavy presence of defensive mages covering the swordsmen outside, and they fought hard, knowing the line could not be flanked. They fought from wall to wall and nothing could get behind them. In front of them, better than thirty thousand Wesmen waited to take their chance. For the defenders it wasn't a question of winning; it was about buying time.
Tessaya watched from his vantage point, admiring the fighting spirit of the defenders and seeing his people die from sword, spell and missile in numbers he had not expected. But, unlike the massacre caused by the water spell, this sight held no fury for him. This was true battle and his men fought and lived or died bravely. He turned to his generals and Shamen.
“Comments?”
“They can hold us until their reserves of mana stamina run low,” said a Shaman, an old man happy to observe and advise. “Their overlapping magical shields are effective but draining. If we are patient, we will break through.”
“But look at the numbers we are losing,” said another. “They are killing us five to one because we can't see to cast into the pass and their heavy offence is coming from there.”
“And we cannot afford to give them rest,” said Tessaya. “We can win by wearing them down man by man, but that is unacceptable.” He gazed at the entrance to the pass, his eye tracing the arch which rose some thirty feet above the battle ground, its rock hewn back so long ago when it was believed the two peoples could genuinely live in peace. He smiled as the solution presented itself. “I think it's time we widened that arch. Raised the roof a little, don't you think?”
“Five Shamen could do it,” said the old man, catching Tessaya's train of thought.
“See that it is done,” said Tessaya.
The message was passed swiftly to the front lines and the quintet of casters gathered in the centre of the battlefield, a zone of calm in the swarming mass of warriors. Shields were raised over them and, with the noise of battle deafening in their ears and with boulders and bolts slicing the air above their heads, they cast the spell to change the course of the fight for Understone Pass.
The white fire lashed out, catching the top of the arch. It fizzed and crackled away, licking the rock either side and well into the pass itself. The rock glowed and shone, the Wytch Lord spell sourcing every crack, fissure and weakness. It poured down the side walls, dislodging chips and dust as it went, and raced here and there along the roof twenty paces in. The Shamen shut off the spell, the horns sounded a retreat and the Wesmen disengaged, shouting their hate and leaving their dead.
It began with a rumble that seemed to come from deep within the mountains. The arch shook, the walls shivered, the roof undulated and then the whole collapsed. Great boulders of rock fell from left, right and above, spreading panic through the defenders. Some ran inside, others for the slopes either side of the pass entrance, but most just stood as the ground juddered under the pounding rock that collapsed along a fifteen-yard stretch, destroying everything beneath it. Men, defences, catapults, all fell victim to the deluge.
In front of the pass, the Wesmen scented victory and yelled new battle cries of triumph at the floundering defenders. Dust filled the air, shards of stone lashed away into the gloom, cutting down those who had escaped the initial collapse, and then, as violently as it had begun, the fall ceased and all that was left was an echo, rumbling away into the heart of the Blackthorne Mountains.
When the dust began to clear, the sight that greeted Tessaya warmed his heart. The defenders’ lines were broken. Hundreds lay dead or dying and those that survived blinked into the new light, leaderless and vulnerable. Because behind them, the pass had gone. Blocked almost from floor to roof by the rock. Nobody was going back, nobody else was coming out.
Tessaya smiled, knowing that his Shamen and warriors could remove the fall as simply as they had caused it in the first place.
“Sound the attack,” he said. “We've a lot of work to do.” With a roar to cool the heart, the Wesmen set to work.
Selyn had died in Parve and Styliann would see the City returned to dust in revenge. He had stopped to gather his strength and to let his Protectors rest and bind the few wounds they had suffered, and now, with dawn broken, they were riding the Torn Wastes. His commands had been simple. Reach the city as fast as the horses would take them, and once there, kill everything western that moved and burn everything that didn't.
He rode in the centre of his Protectors, knowing they would shield him and feeling the thrill of mana energy coursing through his body. As the sun rose, he saw the pyramid, its fires dulled by natural light but burning all the same, saw the miles of the Torn Wastes and saw a stand of Wesmen tents about three miles in to the right and in front of him. They would be first.
Ten Protectors moved ahead to take the encampment, wheeling their horses out of line with complete precision and forming two lines of five as they raced away to the right. The rest galloped on.
Reaching the tents, the Protectors reined in, dismounted and took the canvas apart, piece by piece. Wesmen hurried to defend themselves as the Protectors moved in a single line through the encampment, silent, masked, deadly. At its centre, they stopped in the ashes of the long-dead fire, waiting. In front of them, the Wesmen, around thirty of them, formed up, nervous, hefting blades and axes in unsure hands.
Ten Protector sword tips tapped the ground. Once, twice, three times. On the fourth, in response to unspoken command, they switched their swords to their right hands and swept the axes from their backs into their left and joined battle in a whirl of blurring steel.
The Wesmen had no defence. Where one thrust forward, the gap he thought he'd worked was stopped by the blade of a different opponent. Axe followed sword, delivering death and dismemberment. The Protectors marched forward, each one swatting one strike aside before delivering the next themselves, their wall of strokes complementing each other and giving the Wesmen no chance at all.
The shouts of the Wesmen as they fought and died were met with the eerie silence of the Protectors, who barely even breathed heavily as they advanced, slicing at torso, hacking at neck and stabbing at heart and head. It was all over in a couple of minutes, and without pausing to view their efforts, the Protectors left the Wesmen blood to soak into the earth of the Torn Wastes and rejoined their brethren and Give
n.
Styliann rode on, slowing only as the buildings of Parve neared through the rubble of the City's outskirts. Half a mile from the first, he saw Parve's defenders lined up against him. Wesmen by the hundred, Shamen by the dozen and, here and there, red-cloaked Guardians and Acolytes.
He nodded, satisfied. He could take them all. And every skull crushed and heart ripped out was another he would offer to Selyn and another The Raven would not have to face. A quarter of a mile from the defensive lines, he brought the Protectors to a halt, dismounted them and marched to the attack of Parve, FlameOrbs already forming in his mind.
Under the cover of predawn night, The Raven made slow and steady progress through the Torn Wastes, elven and shapechanger eyes directing every hoof fall. The horses were walking, no need for a gallop until or unless they were challenged. They would arrive at the City as light broke the darkness.
“Are they here?” asked Hirad. He was riding with The Unknown at the head of The Raven. Behind them rode Ilkar and Thraun, eyes piercing the darkness, low voices warning of any potential threat, although in truth there was little unless they were seen. The Wesmen who had been camped there were marching on Julatsa or pounding the defences of Understone Pass.
Jandyr, his face pale and slick with pain, rode between Denser and Erienne with Will bringing up the rear. The elf had made good progress during the hours of rest. His wound had stopped bleeding and Erienne's WarmHeal had been targeted carefully and successfully on the worst-affected muscles in his shoulder and back. His fever had broken and, although weak, he had elected to ride without sedation, determined to keep his mind clear in case of attack. Although, with barely enough strength to draw his sword, let alone wield it, he wasn't sure he'd be of any use.
“I can't feel them,” said The Unknown. “But that doesn't mean they aren't there. If they are under instruction from Styliann, they won't be open to me. Don't forget, I'm not in the soul tank any longer and my ties are weak.” He reached out again, not with his mind but with what he felt to be the centre of his being, yearning for the time of warmth he had spent with his brothers. He still felt an emptiness inside him, though his return to The Raven and their unconditional acceptance of him had eased his transition. But he didn't think he would ever truly be free of the Protectors. He didn't think he wanted to be. And so, he would forever class himself as an outsider.
He could feel nothing in return. He anticipated the weight and warmth of the crowd around him, hearing him and believing in him as he believed in them. But so far, he was alone.
The Raven rode on, and an hour later, with dawn throwing a half-light across the Torn Wastes and their pace increased to a canter as they neared Parve, The Unknown felt it. A surge within him as his brothers mounted an attack. He could feel their togetherness, their combined strength and unswerving belief. He could feel their pleasure that he was there. He asked of them one small thing and they obliged. He turned to Hirad, his smile touching his eyes.
“They are here,” he said.
“Where?” asked the barbarian, automatically looking about him.
“South and east of the City. They have come to help.”
“Well, they need to get here fast,” said Ilkar from behind them. “Look, dead ahead.”
The Raven reined in. The borders of the City were ringed with Wesmen. Not numerous, but enough.
“Any ideas?” asked Hirad.
But any answers were left unspoken as from the north, faint at first but gathering in volume, could be heard the sound of hoofs. Hundreds of them.
Baron Blackthorne stood on the top of a flat stone, Gresse beside him, and addressed his people. They had gathered at the head of Varhawk Crags, the Wesmen perhaps an hour's march behind them. He gazed out into the early dawn light and nodded at what he saw. Scared, tired and hungry men and women but with the desire to save their land still burning fiercely in their hearts.
“I'm not going to lie to you. What we are about to do could well see the death of us all, but I know that you are aware of the magnitude of the task we are performing. We have already set the Wesmen invasion back by two days. I want to make it a third before I die.
“I want to thank each and every one of you for the unfailing effort you have made on behalf of Gresse, myself and Balaia, and I would consider no one a coward if they were to leave now, because this next fight is one in which I will not sound a retreat because we have nowhere left to go. I am proud to have ridden and fought with you and, should we win this war, you will all know my generosity for the rest of your days.
“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.”
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 counterpointed 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 ba
ck 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 topsoil 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 upward, 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.
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