Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

From his left came a stab to the stomach which he blocked with a cross-sweep, left to right. Even so, blade on the right side of his face, he only half blocked the strike from the other man, deflecting the blade aside but allowing the fist to crash into his jaw. He staggered backwards, tripped and fell, the base of his skull connecting sharply with a pillar—

Will speared a short sword into the nearest man’s kidney, knowing that even if he lived through it, the wound would cripple him for enough time to allow an escape. He glanced up as Talan fell like a bundle of rags, surely dead. His killer made the mistake of stopping to survey his handiwork, unaware for a fatal second that someone was behind him.

Will wiped his blades on the body of the second man and stopped to listen. Outside, he thought he could hear voices, though he wasn’t sure he recognised them. He decided to lie low for a while and take in the atmosphere. No sense in them all dying after all.

Courtesy demanded that he be sure Talan was dead, though it seemed a mere formality; the warrior hadn’t moved. Will took a pace towards him and heard a door open behind. He spun round, blades ready, and for the second time in a matter of minutes, his eyes widened. Even as he backed away, the excuse was forming on his lips.

Alun had reached the big open room. It was cold and dark but he could see a shattered chair and the door was open at the other end. There was fighting and he could hear shouting. He could hear it all around him. His sword hung limp from his hand. He had absolutely no idea what to do. At least he understood the look that Hirad had given him when he talked about the Rage. Not contempt, but worry. And a lack of confidence in him. He sat in a plush chair and shook all over.

Travers didn’t wait for the outcome. He shambled back down the narrow passage and opened the door to the main corridor on the upper level. He had walked out and shut it behind him when he was attacked. From the stairs dead ahead it flew like an arrow and, with a flurry of leathery wings, spiked tail and fangs, it hit him. Its claws tangled in his hair, its tail coiled around his left arm and its face appeared, upside down, in front of his own. It was no larger than a market monkey.

He recoiled but the face came right back with him. He would have sworn it was smiling but it couldn’t be human. Indeed, he knew it was not human, and the stench of its breath chilled his spine. Yet he could not take his eyes off it.

It was completely hairless, its scalp taut and shining, its brain pulsing in its skull, sending rivulets of movement through the veins in its face. It cocked its head slightly to one side and then it did smile, revealing upper and lower sets of needle teeth that knitted as its mouth closed, but not before its pointed tongue had darted out to lick Travers’ mouth.

He thought he would vomit but its eyes held him in thrall. They were black and sunk into hard ovals of bone. And deep. Deep enough to fall into and drown in the depths of his terror. Travers could feel his heart pounding as he stared at the thing, its flat slits of nostrils sucking in air, its tiny ears pricking at the slightest sound.

And then its hands came down and gripped his cheeks, its claws digging deep, bringing blood to his face. It leaned in closer, firing its stinking breath into his eyes. He blinked and tried to lean away.

‘Come,’ it said. Its voice rattled in his throat, soft like an old man’s, yet brimful of malice. Travers shivered and squirmed, hanging on desperately to his bowels. ‘Walk with me.’

‘Where?’ he managed. Again it smiled – a hideous movement. Travers closed his eyes but it was still there, etched in his mind.

‘My Master demands your presence. It is not far. Walk.’ The face disappeared but the talons tightened in his hair. Its tail constricted his right arm, which was held up and away from his scabbard so that his forearm dangled parallel to his face.

Travers began to walk, knowing with complete certainty that it was the last one he would ever take.

Alun came to his senses with a start that made his head spin. He could hear fighting above him, the sounds of men dying. And some of them were fighting and dying for him. His boys were in here. His wife was in here.

He stood up, an anger as pure as a virgin’s kiss flooding his body. He wanted to make someone pay for the anguish and loss they’d put him through. The days like months, the months like years. But today it would end and his sword would spill blood for the first time.

They’d be held upstairs, of this much he was certain. He ran to the open door and took the stairs at a sprint, pausing when he reached the top. Someone was at the other end of the corridor and walking towards him, something on his head. He ran towards them, the man never once focusing on him. He stopped again and raised his sword to strike but then locked eyes with the cat he’d seen Hirad carrying. Something in those eyes stopped him cutting the man down and instead they turned him to look at the door at the end of the corridor.

Alun nodded and ran on again, dimly aware of fighting to his right and the flap of wings behind him. His trophy was close. He could feel them. Gods, he could almost smell them! They were his boys and he would rescue them.

He stormed through the door and up the narrow passageway, bursting into the guardroom and all but knocking the solitary guard from his seat. Before he could react, Alun opened his throat with a furious swing and, not daring to think about what he had just done, clattered up the spiral staircase.

She came at him, a rage of blonde hair in a shabby and torn dark nightshirt, her arms outstretched, hands gripping at his shoulders.

‘My boys?’ she shouted, eyes darting all over his face. ‘Have you got my boys?’

Thraun shook his head. ‘No . . .’ he began, but she was past him, screaming.

‘Fools. They’ll kill them. They said they’d kill them!’ She flew down the stairs, across the room and out into the corridor, Thraun right behind her. She tore left and through a door into a narrow passageway. There was a cry from up ahead, then a clash of swords. Erienne increased her pace.

‘Come on, Selik, killing me would serve no purpose. I mean, I still owe you.’ Will backed up further, knowing there was a door a few paces behind him. He sent a prayer that it was not locked.

‘Yes, you do. Once it was just money, and now it’s your life.’ Selik ducked under the doorframe. Will swallowed hard. The equation was simple: if the door behind him was locked, he would die. He slid back another step.

Selik was Will’s greatest mistake. He’d seen a farmer’s boy who’d be an easy take and he’d never been more wrong. He’d owed the gifted swordsman ever since.

‘I’ve got a lot of money coming, Selik. All I need is a little more time.’

‘You have never fooled me, Begman, and you never will, because time is something you just don’t have any more.’ Selik advanced, drawing his sword. ‘Try and offer some resistance.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Will. He turned and ran for the door, yanked it open and headed for the stairs, his relief turning to dismay as Selik barred his way, appearing from the door Talan had used earlier. The Black Wing shook his head. Will skidded to a stop and fled in the other direction, racing through the first door he found. It let into a narrow passageway and he heard voices ahead. One was female. He ran on. It was too late to turn anyway, and company was about the only chance he had.

Alun hauled open the door at the top of the spiral staircase, rushing in to live his dream but discovering his waking nightmare.

A man stood with his back to him, leaning over a double bed on which two children lay, the blood and their stillness telling its own story. Alun’s breath caught in his throat, his legs weakened and his sword point struck the floor as his arm lost the strength to hold it aloft.

He’d contemplated no other scene but his boys rushing into his arms, their faces alight, their mouths chattering identical delightful gibberish, their bodies warm against his face. But they would be silent for ever. He couldn’t move, not in or out, until the man turned, talking as he came.

‘I was just making sure they were de—’

Alun mouthed the word ‘you’ and attacked with his sword, his feet his hands, his teeth – a frenzy of raw fury. The guard fell back, fielding blow after blow on stained dagger blade and armoured forearm, taking cuts, bruises and scrapes all over his body. But Alun’s frenzy had no clear purpose and one wild sweep of his blade left him hopelessly exposed. The guard simply swayed inside and stabbed him through the heart.

Relief flooded Alun’s dying mind, his children called him and he thought he heard the man say sorry.

Isman’s face loomed in Ilkar’s field of vision and once more the mage found himself wishing it was all over. The sounds of combat were distant yet intrusive in Ilkar’s ears and he wanted them to stop.

‘And now you, Ilkar of The Raven.’ Ilkar merely raised his eyebrows and waited for the blow which never came. Instead, with a startled grunt, Isman fell to his knees, then on to his back, an arrow puncturing his right eye.

There was the sound of footsteps coming towards, past and then back to him and finally Ilkar saw another face, this one a stranger. An elf.

‘Who are you?’

‘Jandyr. No time for talking. Hirad needs help. You are a mage, I take it.’

‘Hirad is dead,’ said Ilkar, a cold dread filling his heart as he uttered the words.

‘No, he is not. Not yet.’

It wasn’t until he sat bolt upright that a searing pain reminded Ilkar his lung was torn by his broken ribs. It was going to be a flip of a coin who died first.

Thraun barged past Erienne as they entered the guardroom and was first on to the spiral stairs. At the top, he found Alun’s body and a man staring at him, confusion all over his face.

‘Oh, no,’ said the man.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Thraun and swept his blade through the man’s ribs, where it lodged in his spine, sending new blood spraying over the corpses of the boys. He wrenched his sword clear and took in the charnel house the moment before Erienne reached the door to see her slaughtered family.

‘I—’ began Thraun, but the look in her eyes silenced him as surely as a blow. She stepped over Alun, not sparing him a glance as she moved to the bed, Thraun edging aside to guard the door.

Erienne said nothing. She reached a steady hand to each of her children, smoothed matted hair from their faces, stroked their cheeks and brushed her fingers over their lips.

Thraun gazed at her, pity clashing with admiration at her bearing. But then she turned and if fury had been light, he would have been blinded by it. The air around her seemed to crackle, almost bend as her eyes sucked it in. Her mouth, a thin line below her nose, was still, but beneath, the skin of her cheeks moved as her jaws pressed together over and over.

The sound of running footsteps brought Thraun to himself and he swung to face the door, sword ready.

‘Stand aside.’ Erienne’s voice, like the sounding of a death bell, brooked no argument, and Thraun took a pace backwards. He turned to her, saw her hands, palms together in front of her face, felt the room chill and smelt frost.

The power was frightening and his pulse quickened. He tore his eyes away and focused again on the doorway. Feet clattered on the spiral staircase, then another set, the sound of laboured breathing, a shadow and then a figure, small, wiry and scared. Thraun’s heart missed a beat.

‘Erienne, wait!’ But her hands were outstretched and the spell was ready. Her eyes snapped open, her mouth framed the command word and the room temperature plummeted.

‘Will, duck! Get down!’ Thraun threw himself at Will’s legs, bringing him down in a confused heap. Erienne’s IceWind roared over both their heads, catching Selik square in the chest as he reached the door. The warrior staggered back a pace, dropped his weapon then collapsed, lips blue, eyes glass, hands white, shattering to a thousand fragments as he hit the ground.

Thraun clambered to his feet, hauling Will with him. Erienne brushed past them and started down the stairway.

‘Erienne, wait,’ said Thraun, but she shook her head, not pausing in her stride.

‘Travers is next.’

Chapter 16

Ilkar wept. He didn’t know how, but Hirad was still alive. The wound in his stomach was deep and surely fatal, yet he wasn’t dead. And now Ilkar would have to sit and watch him fade into the grave because Travers had taken away his capacity to save him.

Even if he and Denser had uninterrupted sleep for a dozen hours, it was debatable whether they would have the combined strength to heal him, such was the damage to all three of them.

And so he knelt by Hirad, his hands on that awful wound, ignoring his own pain as he fed mana directly into his friend’s broken, mercifully unconscious body while his tears dampened his cheeks and dripped to the cold stone floor. It would keep him alive for now, but Ilkar was so weak himself he knew it was ultimately hopeless.

He felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Ilkar, I share your pain.’ He hadn’t heard Denser move. He’d assumed him already deep in restoring sleep.

‘I can’t save him, Denser,’ said Ilkar. His voice, cracked by his sobs, was rendered unsteady from sheer fatigue. ‘He’s going and I can’t save him.’

‘There might be a way.’ Denser’s voice too was barely recognisable. His battered face stopped him framing his words with anything close to accuracy.

‘And what would you suggest, Xetesk man? There’s no magic wand we can wave!’ Ilkar jabbed the words out, coughed and spat blood.

‘But there is another mage in this castle.’

‘Erienne,’ said Jandyr.

‘The bitch that betrayed us,’ said Ilkar.

‘No,’ said Jandyr firmly. ‘She was forced. Travers took her sons too. We came to get them all.’

‘Erienne Malanvai?’ asked Denser. ‘Dordovan Lore Scribe?’

‘Yes.’

‘That could prove a very useful piece of fortune.’ He frowned. ‘What the hell did he want with her?’ He shook his head and turned his attention to the elf. ‘How long before you die?’ Ilkar looked up at Denser and shook his head. ‘How long, Ilkar?’

The elf shrugged. ‘Three hours, perhaps a little more.’

Denser grunted and immediately sat behind Ilkar, his legs straddling the Julatsan.

‘Lean into me,’ he ordered. Ilkar lay back. Denser turned them so they were both facing the same way as Hirad, Ilkar having to reach to his right to touch the barbarian’s wound.

‘Now stretch out your legs,’ said Denser and, with wincing stiffness, Ilkar did.

Jandyr gazed on, confused. There sat Denser, his hands now on Ilkar’s shoulders, while Ilkar himself lay propped in Denser’s lap, his hands probing Hirad’s stomach ceaselessly.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘I’ll explain later,’ said Denser. ‘Bring a chair. Place it supporting my back. Now, Ilkar, exactly what is it that’s going to kill you?’

‘A combination. My right lung is punctured, it’s filling with blood and may collapse. My kidneys are too bruised to function correctly and I believe my liver is also bleeding.’

‘Very well.’ Denser adjusted his hand positions, moving one to the base of Ilkar’s skull and placing the other over the right side of the elf’s chest. ‘Release control to me. Feed your mana into Hirad.’

‘And you?’ Ilkar’s wave of gratitude was tinted by a virgin worry over the Xeteskian’s condition.

Denser managed a chuckle. ‘They beat every inch, but little is broken except toes and fingers. I am in no danger.’

‘Thank you.’ Ilkar’s voice shook.

‘There is a wider purpose.’

‘Thank you anyway.’

Denser said nothing, merely squeezed Ilkar’s neck a moment before turning to Jandyr. ‘We need the other mage. Every second is critical.’

Jandyr nodded. ‘They’ll have her by now. I’ll bring them in.’ He made to move, but the far doors opened and in walked Travers, the cat perched on his head. The Captain’s eyes were glazed, his stance bent and stooped as if he had aged twenty years in the few minutes he was out of the room.

Denser smiled. ‘I see you found my pet.’

Travers came to his senses as the cat jumped to the ground and trotted to Denser. He took in the scene, his eyes travelling over Isman’s body and the strange tableau presented by The Raven trio. He frowned.

‘I thought—’

‘You are no longer important, Travers, you are nothing. The chain you are wearing, however, is everything.’ Travers groped inside his shirt, his frown deepening. Denser caught Jandyr’s eye. ‘I think you should stand outside, you don’t want to see this.’ Jandyr paused, a dubious look on his face, then walked from the room, another arrow ready in his bow.

‘Please . . .’ Travers took a pace towards Denser, who ignored him, locking eyes with the cat.

‘Kill him.’ The cat changed, and Travers’ pleas turned to a blubbering fear. Denser looked at him a last time.

‘You thought to tame The Raven. So did I. But it can’t be done. At least I will be alive to atone for my error.’ There was a slavering sound next to him. ‘Thank the Gods we beat you. At least Balaia still has a chance to save itself.’

Denser’s demon streaked across the space between him and Travers.

‘Close your eyes, Ilkar,’ said Denser.

The Captain screamed.

Jandyr fought the desire to open the door. Travers’ cries sourced from a fear deeper than any man should touch but, thankfully, were cut off quickly. The elf heard a sound akin to a melon hitting the floor. He fought equally hard not to vomit.

He turned at the sound of hurrying footsteps descending the stairs opposite. He stretched his bow but relaxed it as he saw a woman, Erienne surely, moving towards him flanked by Thraun and Will.

‘Get out of my way,’ said Erienne, trying to push past him. Jandyr grabbed her by the upper arms and restrained her.

‘You can’t go in there. Not yet.’ He looked past her at Thraun. ‘Stop her while I check what’s happening.’ Thraun took Erienne, who made just one attempt to break his grip.

‘You can’t protect Travers for ever.’ She grated the words out, the fire in her eyes bright and hard.

‘I can assure you we are not protecting him,’ said Jandyr.

‘What’s going on, Jan?’ asked Will.

‘The Raven are in there, three of them at any rate. So was Travers, but I think he’s dead now.’

‘Think?’ hissed Erienne.

‘They wouldn’t let me remain to see.’ He paused. ‘Hirad’s hurt. He’s dying. The Raven mages want you to help.’ He nodded at Erienne, then turned to the door. ‘Wait a moment.’

He peered inside. All was still save the pool of blood expanding slowly from beneath the blanket that covered Travers’ head and upper body. Denser and Ilkar hadn’t moved from Hirad’s side and the cat lay curled on the chair supporting Denser’s back, cleaning its paws and whiskers.

The elf walked back into the room, holding the door for the others. As one, they stopped to take in what they were seeing. Only Erienne understood, and she walked slowly towards Denser. She paused, sampling the movement in the mana.

‘Well, well, well. A Julatsan and a Xeteskian joined in a mana drip for a dying man. I’ve surely seen everything now.’ Her voice was cold but the dampness on her face gave away a fraction of what she felt inside.

‘I wish we could have met under easier circumstances,’ said Denser.

‘Easier!’ she screamed. ‘My children are dead, you bastard! Dead. I should bleed the lot of you where you sit.’

Denser looked up and around, catching Thraun’s eye. The man nodded.

‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘One of the guards cut their throats.’

‘And all because your people wanted to save you,’ managed Erienne, sobs now racking her body. ‘My life has been taken and there was nothing I could do.’ She sagged into Thraun’s strong grasp. He supported her to a chair. ‘I wasn’t even there . . . they died alone.’

‘Take your time, Erienne,’ said Thraun. ‘Take your time.’ He smoothed her hair.

‘Please,’ said Denser. ‘We don’t have long. Hirad is dying.’ Erienne dragged her hands from her face, her eyes, red and swelling, driving into his.

‘And you think I should care?’ She stood and walked over to him, looking down in disgust. ‘You know why I was taken? Because Xetesk started a search for Dawnthief and Travers thought I could help him control it. My boys are dead because of you and your College. Well, Denser the great Dawnthief mage, I might just sit and watch your friend die. At least that’s a choice I can make, unlike the one to save my children.’ Her chin wobbled again and fresh tears sprang into her eyes. She turned away.

Denser framed an apology but anything he came up with would have been woefully inadequate. Instead he said, ‘Xetesk doesn’t want Dawnthief for itself.’

‘Drop dead, Denser, I don’t believe you.’ Erienne walked back to her chair and sat.

Denser breathed deep, beaten muscles protesting. ‘You have to believe me. The Wytch Lords have escaped the mana prison and are back in Parve. Dawnthief is the only way to destroy them and stop eighty thousand Wesmen tearing our land apart.’ She looked at him again, brow creased. ‘Please, Erienne. No one can touch the suffering you must be experiencing, but you can save Hirad. If we are to defeat the Wytch Lords, we must have him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he leads The Raven and they are recovering the spell. Without him, we won’t be strong enough.’ Denser coughed, a line of blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

Erienne half laughed. ‘That’s one hell of a story,’ she said. ‘And what do you say, Ilkar? Or I presume you are Ilkar, the Raven mage?’

‘I believe him,’ said Ilkar, his voice soft and weak.

Erienne raised her eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, that is impressive.’ She walked stiffly to the doors, not bothering to wipe her cheeks. ‘You know I didn’t have the power of life over my children, but I have it over you. Or death,’ said Erienne. ‘My children need me.’

‘Think hard, Erienne,’ said Denser to her back. ‘And get rest. Replenish yourself. Right now, the fate of Balaia is in your hands.’

Erienne paused and turned to Denser. He managed to catch her eye and hold it. ‘I mean it,’ he said.

She left the room, Thraun shadowing her all the way.

‘It’s going to be a long night,’ said Denser.

Ilkar stirred, wincing. He opened his eyes and looked around blearily.

‘Where are the others?’ he asked.

‘Who?’ Will walked towards him.

‘Talan and Richmond.’

Will’s gaze flicked to Denser and he bit his lip. Denser felt a new weight settle on his heart.

‘I saw Talan fall. I don’t know about Richmond but, well, he’s not here. I’m sorry.’ Will shrugged.

Ilkar shook his head slowly and refocused on Hirad. The barbarian’s breathing was shallow but he was stable for now. Ilkar only hoped there was a point to it all. Denser could keep him alive and he could keep Hirad alive for perhaps another twelve hours, but that was all they could do. The efficiency of the beatings administered by Travers’ men had seen to that. Then, the mana, the last drops that even Travers couldn’t take from them, would be gone. And when the support went, the final nails would be in place and The Raven would be lost for ever.

Denser squeezed his shoulder. ‘She will help us. Just hang on.’

‘There’s nothing else I can do,’ said Ilkar. ‘He’s all I’ve got.’ He looked at Hirad’s face, still and calm. ‘Just you and me now, old friend. Don’t even think of dying without me.’

He would have lapsed back into his semi-trance, his mind roving in Hirad’s ruined stomach to feel where his trickle of life-sustaining mana could do most good, but the bottom doors opened and in walked joy and sorrow in equal measure.

A little unsteady on his feet but very much alive, Talan entered the room. Will and Jandyr relaxed their stances; Will smiled. So did Ilkar for a moment. But his euphoria was quashed as easily as it had arisen. In Talan’s arms, his legs limp from the supported knees, head lolling and arms hanging, was Richmond. The fact of his lifeless body was etched in Talan’s grim face. The warrior laid his friend on the nearest table.

‘This is one Vigil too far,’ he said. ‘It must . . .’ His eyes, so far locked on Ilkar, moved to capture Hirad. A look of pure panic swamped his grief. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, his voice leaden. ‘Please God, no.’ He started to move but Denser’s voice stopped him and the relief he felt at the mage’s words robbed his legs of their remaining strength and he sat heavily.

‘He is still alive,’ said the Xeteskian. ‘And we can keep him that way for the time being.’

‘And then what?’ Talan felt disquiet at Denser’s tone.

‘Erienne, I hope. She represents Hirad’s only chance.’

‘What do you mean, “I hope”?’ Talan probed the back of his head, felt the swelling, the crusted blood, the matted hair.

‘Her sons are dead; her life, she believes, is over, and she holds The Raven to blame.’

‘And if she doesn’t help?’ Talan’s face suggested he knew the answer. Ilkar merely confirmed his fears. And worse.

‘Hirad will die,’ he said. ‘And so, I am afraid, will I.’ The Julatsan offered Talan a bleak raising of the eyebrows, then his mind once more was lost to Hirad’s desperate cause.

Talan put a hand to his mouth and massaged his bottom lip, the thudding at the back of his skull forgotten as he contemplated a far grimmer reality. It was laid in front of him yet he still refused to completely believe. And at the same time he knew there was no doubt. Ilkar always called things as he saw them and he’d just called the end. Possibly. The key was Erienne. She had to be made to understand. He stood up.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Denser.

‘Where’s Erienne?’ demanded Talan.

‘You can’t help by confronting her,’ said Denser.

‘And what would you know?’ shouted Talan. ‘Is it your friends dying in front of your eyes? I don’t think so. The Raven has been taken down for the first time and it could get even worse. She has to understand the consequences—’

‘She knows.’ Ilkar’s voice was dark with fatigue. ‘We have to trust that her mage instincts will override her grief before it is too late.

We’ve done all we can.’ He breathed in, a ragged sound full of pain. ‘Please, no more noise. This is hard enough already.’

‘We could all do with some food, I’m sure,’ said Denser. ‘The kitchen’s—’

‘I know where it is.’ Jandyr went in search of sustenance, partly in response to Denser’s request but mainly to get out of the room. The intensity of hurt, of grief and of loss was all but tangible. He found it oppressive. Closing the door on it, he could breathe freely again. He stepped past two bodies and made his way to the range.

Ilkar probed with his mind and fingers, allowing the mana to ease from him in life-sustaining pulses. Isman’s sword had driven deep, lacerating and severing Hirad’s intestines in half a dozen places. Its point had nicked his spine but there was no other damage to his back. The main worry stemmed from the upward trajectory of the thrust, taking the blade through the barbarian’s stomach. His digestive system was in total collapse, his multiple internal cuts needed constant attention and Ilkar was just waiting for his kidneys to fail.

A WarmHeal wouldn’t be enough – two or three, carefully targeted, might do the job but he wasn’t sure Hirad had that much time. The simple fact was that Hirad needed a BodyCast and Ilkar knew of only three mages who could cast it in reasonable safety. None of them was in this castle.

With Hirad tended for the moment, Ilkar turned his mind on himself. He could feel the mana pulse and drip from Denser’s hands. Over his chest, the gentle flow had stopped the bleeding in his lung, relieving his breathing, while from the base of his neck, pulse after pulse of mana fled down his veins to caress his most damaged internal organs.

Ilkar sent a prayer of thanks that in this one way at least, the Colleges would forever be united – every mage had the ability to use tiny amounts of mana to maintain a body in whatever condition it was found and indeed were morally bound to do so. Nevertheless, Ilkar had still found Denser’s actions surprising. Perhaps he shouldn’t have.

Time crawled. Ilkar was dimly aware of strong daylight edging around the heavy drapes, and of being fed soup. But as the hours wore on, Hirad required more and more of his concentration and the world beyond faded.

He was tiring, he knew that. It was evident in the return of pain in his back, arms and legs. Denser couldn’t cover it all. His mana remained where it would keep Ilkar alive. But the Julatsan’s mana reserves were stretched, and as they became ever more so, he demanded yet greater input from Denser.

There would come a point when neither of them could suppress the pain in their own bodies as their mana was all directed elsewhere. Then, the end would be near. Then, Erienne would have to help, or he and Hirad would die.

Styliann relaxed, smiling to himself as he recovered from the communion. He pictured Selyn in his mind, saw her body arching with pleasure, all but felt the caress of her lips and the gentle touch of her hands. Her return would signal a change. He needed a son.

But for now, she travelled deep in Wesmen-held lands towards Parve and the almost certain confirmation of the fear the four Colleges had harboured ever since the Wytch Lords’ banishment. A return. And a return to a power greater than before, harder to stop and impossible to vanquish. That is, without Dawnthief. Because the Colleges were no longer as strong and their armies no longer as big. Without the spell, everything would be lost.

Concealing herself during the daytime and flying on ShadowWings for parts of the night, Selyn was making swift and safe progress towards the edge of the Torn Wastes. She would reach its boundaries in three days, Parve itself in four. He could expect his next communion with her in five. It was going to be a hard time. This was danger like she had never faced before. And he would see to it that she never had to face it again.

His mind wandered and he glanced out of his study window, tracing the outlines of Nyer’s and Laryon’s Towers. Nyer’s man had breached Septern’s workshop but had not held communion with his Master since then. Apparently. Styliann felt he was not being fed all the information. That irritated him a great deal.