Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 171 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 2

Hirad Coldheart sat on the steps of Julatsa’s refectory. The night was warm and peaceful. From outside the college, he could hear the odd snatch of life. A cart rattling over cobbles; horse hoofs echoing against buildings; a voice raised in greeting. He breathed in deeply, feeling his chest wound pull under its bandages. It was a stubborn one. Magic had knitted the muscle but his skin was still sore and tight. A mark of age, he supposed. A little like the grey flecks he’d found in his long braids.

He knew he shouldn’t but he felt released. All the problems that Balaia still faced and for the first time in so long he and The Raven were not bound by honour or contract to do anything about them. He knew he should still care but he found he couldn’t. Not at the moment. Not ever, probably.

There was tension in Julatsa as those who had fled began to return. The city’s rulers still hadn’t had the guts to come to the college. There would be trouble, he was sure of it. And beyond this city, Dordover, Xetesk and Lystern presumably still fought. They’d battle themselves to a standstill. All too proud to sue for peace before the maximum blood was spilt.

He knew he should worry about where the country he loved was going but something was missing. Looking over at the Heart of Julatsa, around which would soon be constructed a new tower, he knew exactly what it was. It wasn’t the country itself that was great and worth saving. It was the people he loved that wanted to live there. And they were dead or leaving. All of them.

Ilkar might have been the final straw for him but there were Sirendor, Ras, Richmond, Will and Jandyr too. All dead despite everything he had tried to do to save them. And The Unknown, Denser and Erienne were all thinking of their families across the ocean, alive or dead. Thraun would go with them because The Raven were his family. Either that or return to the pack. He would not be drawn on the subject. That left Darrick. Hirad chuckled. If there was one man more wanted than the rest of The Raven, it was Darrick. He really had little choice.

So they would all be travelling back to take ship near Blackthorne with those very few elves that could be spared from the effort to shore up the college now the Heart was risen. Rebraal had to go. The Al-Arynaar needed their leader on Calaius. The same was true of Auum and the TaiGethen and of course, where he went, so did his Tai. Finally, Hirad would have bet everything he owned on the single ClawBound pair returning to the rainforests. They had been mourning for those of their kind lost since the end of the siege. That they missed their homeland and their kin was something he could read even in the eyes of the panther. They were outside now, staring up at the stars and knowing their positions were all wrong.

Hirad drained his goblet of wine and looked down at his plate. It was empty of the bread and meat he’d taken. Thinking it was probably time to turn in, he picked up the plate and turned to rise. Denser and The Unknown were just coming out of the refectory, a wineskin and goblets in hand. He smiled at them both, the sharp-featured mage and the shaven-headed warrior.

‘Where do you think you’re going, Coldheart?’ said The Unknown.

‘For a refill?’ ventured Hirad.

‘Correct answer,’ said Denser.

The two men sat either side of him. Denser filled his goblet.

‘What’s this, some sort of deputation?’

‘No,’ said The Unknown. ‘We just thought it’s a long time since we’d sat and drunk wine together. The others’ll be out soon.’

‘Time to toast the dead and move on, eh?’ Hirad nodded at the Heart.

‘Something like that,’ replied Denser.

‘Well, no sense in hanging about.’ Hirad raised his glass. ‘Ilkar. An elf without peer and a friend I will miss for ever.’

The goblets clacked together. Hirad drained his in one and nudged Denser for more.

‘He’ll be proud of us, you know,’ said Denser, rubbing a hand across his neatly trimmed and still jet-black beard.

‘He’d bloody better be. Almost saw the end of the lot of us, dragging that piece of rubble from its hole.’

Denser laughed loud. Out in the courtyard, the panther turned her head lazily. ‘Ah, Hirad, ever able to bring everything down to its most basic level.’

‘Best thing is, though, whatever happens to us, this is a memorial to him, isn’t it?’ said Hirad. ‘I mean, it’s only raised because of what he started us doing.’ He sighed, heart heavy for a moment. ‘Should have been here to see it though, shouldn’t he?’

There was a silence, each man lost in memories.

‘You ready to go?’ asked The Unknown.

Hirad shrugged and looked up into The Unknown’s flint-grey eyes. ‘Well, it’s not as if I’ve got much to pack.’

‘That isn’t what I meant.’

‘I know.’

The Unknown punched him on the arm. ‘So tell me.’

‘That hurt.’

‘Not as much as the next one will.’

Hirad eyed the bunched muscles beneath the smile. ‘Actually, I was thinking about it before you two interrupted me. There’s nothing keeping me here now. And I’m tired of fighting. Really. Look at all we’ve done. And the only monuments are those we have built for our dead friends. Nearly everyone else wants us dead too. Ungrateful bastards.’

‘We thought we’d go tomorrow. First light,’ said The Unknown.

Hirad raised his eyebrows. ‘Are we fit for that? I’m talking about Erienne, of course.’

‘She’s fine,’ said Denser. ‘Physically at any rate. I think she just can’t make up her mind which part of arriving back on Herendeneth she is looking forward to least. Seeing Lyanna’s grave or getting taught about the One by Cleress.’

‘We’ll get south all right, will we?’ asked Hirad. ‘There’s still a war on, you know.’

‘Nothing escapes you, does it?’ said Denser.

‘Darrick picked a route. I agree with it,’ said The Unknown. ‘It’ll see us back to Blackthorne without much problem. Then all we have to do is wait for the Calaian Sun to put into the Bay of Gyernath.’

‘So long as you’re happy,’ said Hirad.

‘I am,’ said The Unknown. ‘But you know how it is. We don’t move until you say.’

Hirad felt that familiar surge. Even on their way out of the country they’d fought to save from itself for so long, even on their way to retirement, The Raven was still working. He nodded.

‘There’s no reason to stay if we’re all fit to travel.’ He smiled and looked across at The Unknown. ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘You know how it is.’

‘Yeah.’ Hirad stood up and looked down into his goblet, seeing the ripples in the dark liquid. ‘Where are the others? I feel the need for another toast to someone or other.’

Sha-Kaan turned a lazy roll in the air. Below him, the mists enveloped the valley of the Kaan Broodlands. Ahead of him, the plains of Domar and the dense steaming forests of Teras fled away beyond the encircling mountains of Beshara from which the dragon dimension took its name. The mountains that made his valley so rich and humid, trapping the moisture and heat.

He could hear the calls of his brood-in-flight, operating the patterns that kept intruders from entering the Broodlands. Now more than ever, they must not fail. Now more than ever, they were prone to attack.

Sha-Kaan blessed the strength of Hirad Coldheart and The Raven. He blessed their belief and determination, their energy and their courage. Without them, he would not have been here to lead his brood at this most critical time and their own belief would surely have faltered. And without Hirad in particular, he would not have been able to spend these last days in the healing streams of inter-dimensional space. To relax in the Klene, the melde corridor that was anchored at one end by the brood consciousness and at the other by the remarkable barbarian’s, and there be tended by the Vestare. His servant race. Faithful, steeped in awe of their masters and living to serve under their protection. It was a pleasure he had thought denied him for ever.

Sha-Kaan felt the frightened excitement of a dozen brood-at-spawn. Their time was upon them. The next cycle of light and dark would see new births for the Kaan to celebrate and protect. The energy of a birth could be felt far beyond the Broodlands, in the minds of their enemies. Such was the danger linked to the joy of every birth. It was the reason the brood flew now, securing their borders, and would fly in even greater numbers very soon. The Kaan were ageing. They could not afford to lose any of their young.

Sha-Kaan pulsed out with his mind to his brood. His return had been like a birth to them and now of course they looked to their Great Kaan for guidance as they had done for so many cycles. He pulsed orders to be wary, to ensure the flight patterns were kept tight, and to keep the Kaan-in-flight changing and so keep them all fresh. And he pulsed harmony, calm and his confidence in living births to the brood-at-spawn.

Driving his wings hard for a dozen beats, he swept upwards, meaning to look down on his lands from the outer markers where his patrols circled, eyes and minds alert for early signs of enemies. He greeted them with barks and a pulse that warned against complacency.

Reaching his desired height, he turned into a gentle downward-spiralling glide, feeling the rush of the wind over his scales and fully extended wings. His eyes searched below, looking for anything he had missed, any gap that should be closed. He counted just on a hundred Kaan above the mist layer. There would be an equal number below it and twice that many at rest in chouls across the Broodlands.

It looked an impressive defence but it represented the immature and the very old in addition to those of fighting age. The Naik were strong. They knew Kaan birthings were close. He wondered whether they believed an attack worth the probable losses. They had so often proved an impossible brood to gauge. At once utterly dismissive of rival broods’ rights to land in Beshara and surprisingly concessionary and honest in alliance.

The Kaan had not experienced alliance with the Naik themselves but knew their ways from the Veret, a dying brood threatened and now defended by the Naik in a bizarre turn of attitude.

An attack depended on the Naik ability to defend their own homelands while trying to take the Kaan’s. That meant new alliances would have to be made. Sha-Kaan wished he had the time to visit the Veret to get some indication of likely force but they were too far distant.

Satisfied his flight organisation left no unseen access for their enemies, he sailed down faster. A rest in a choul was what he needed now to further ease his ageing muscles, not yet healed by his rest in inter-dimensional space; its coolness, darkness and companionship would be very welcome. But before that, he probed Hirad Coldheart’s mind. Across the uncertainties of inter-dimensional space and into Balaia, he let his consciousness wander.

He could sense the enemies that probed its enclosing membrane, looking for a way in. The Arakhe. Demons, the Balaians called them. An ever-present danger to every creature that inhabited the countless dimensions; and besides enemy broods, the only threat to the Kaan. Balaia was calm. The dimensional magic that had alerted the Arakhe had caused no lasting damage. The tears in space had been small and short-lived. And Hirad Coldheart was sleeping, his mind free though he did not know it.

Sha-Kaan withdrew, satisfied. Yet the density of the Arakhe surrounding Balaian space bothered him. Like they anticipated something. He could feel their minds like thorns in flamegrass. Unpleasant, unwelcome and unnatural.

He would keep close watch on them. Once the birthings were complete and the disruption to the brood psyche settled, he would have more time. Perhaps then he might build alliances of his own, do something about the Arakhe. Something terminal.

Barking his approach, he flew to a choul.

Dystran tried to calm himself before he entered Ranyl’s private chamber. He took a moment to readjust his shirt and be sure his hair was smooth against his head. He slowed his breathing and hoped his face wasn’t too red from his run. He nodded at the guard on the door who opened it for him. A wave of heat washed out from the dimly lit interior. He walked in.

To the left, the fireplace glowed hot, yellow and orange flames spreading beguiling shadows over walls and drapes. To the right, the light from a hooded lantern revealed Ranyl’s bed and the woman sitting beside it. She had one arm resting on the bed, her hand gripped by Ranyl’s. At her side on a low table, a bowl and cloth.

Dystran had expected to hear the rasping of a man near his end but the room was quiet. Yet the atmosphere was thick with expectation, smelled sweet from bowls of infused herbs and petals and was hardly supportive of Ranyl’s longevity. He moved quietly towards the bed.

‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said. ‘Your tending has been most welcome these last days.’

After a moment’s hesitation, the woman stood. She moved Ranyl’s hand from hers, squeezed it briefly and leant in to murmur a few words before kissing him on the forehead. With head bowed, she hurried past Dystran, who did not miss the tracks of tears on her cheeks reflecting the firelight.

As he sat, Dystran had the overwhelming urge to run. Not to face what he knew he must. The sounds of fighting echoed across the dark city. Everything he knew and treasured was under threat. And here, breathing so quietly he could hardly be heard, the man he needed most was slipping away from him.

He took Ranyl’s hand in his and felt the fingers move weakly in his palm.

‘Feeling tired, old dog?’ asked Dystran quietly, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. So few days had passed since Ranyl had seemed strong, able to walk, sit up, eat. The suddenness of the change was brutal to see.

In the gloom, Ranyl’s eyelids flickered and opened. His eyes, so recently bright and full of determination, were dull and sunken. His mouth moved, breath a sibilant hiss over which his words were barely audible.

‘. . . can’t bear to see Xetesk attacked. Keep them from us.’

‘The Wesmen won’t make it off the walls,’ said Dystran gently. ‘Rest easy. Hold on. See us victorious.’

‘No, young pup. I’m tired.’ He managed a brief smile. ‘I will leave it to younger men. I was . . . I was really only waiting until you came to say goodbye.’

Ranyl’s voice was fading such that Dystran had to lean closer and closer. His words chilled the Lord of the Mount. He gripped the old man’s hand, shaking it.

‘No, Master Ranyl,’ said Dystran. ‘I need you to guide me. There is no one else I can trust.’

‘You have been such a friend,’ said Ranyl. ‘And you are a great leader. You need no one.’

‘No, Ranyl. Hold on. This pain will pass. You’ll soon feel stronger. ’

But the words weren’t true, he knew that. He could see it in the pallor of Ranyl’s complexion, ghostly in the gloom. And he could smell it in the air.

Ranyl coughed weakly. ‘Mourn me, but don’t miss me.’

Dystran nodded, accepting. He smiled and placed a hand on Ranyl’s cold forehead. ‘Everything I have achieved is because of you. I will be in your debt for eternity.’

Ranyl chuckled. ‘A fitting epitaph,’ he said, his eyes brightening just briefly.

And then he was gone.

Dystran walked to the balcony shutters and opened them, admitting the cool air of night. He saw fires towards the walls and could hear the sounds of battle and of panic beginning to grip the streets. He even fancied he could taste blood in the air.

Mostly, he felt isolation. Only one man could save Xetesk now. Unfortunately, it was him. For a time he let the tears fall, his mind focusing on the tortured screams of Ranyl’s familiar as it faded to death after its master.

The prize was so close Tessaya could almost touch it. Men were bred tough in the Heartlands and he felt proud to fight next to them. The Xeteskians were falling back before him and his heart sang victory.

He had led his warriors in a hard drive right along the battlements. His axe ran red and his arms and chest were cut by his enemies. But now the turret was theirs. In front of him a warrior fell, skull crushed by a mace. Tessaya grabbed his collar as he went down, dragging him back. He strode into the space, axe carving through an upward arc left to right across his body. Its blade caught his enemy under the chin. His helmet flew off, his jaw shattered and his head snapped back, taking his body with it and striking those behind him.

Warriors surged forward, the noise intensifying in the enclosed space.

‘Hold the far door,’ ordered Tessaya, pushing men at it. ‘The rest of you, let’s take these stairs.’

Handicapped by the direction of the spiral, the Xeteskians were forced back quickly. Tessaya led his warriors down, taking the inside himself. His axe was in his right hand, sweeping in front of him.

As Tessaya knew it would, the Xeteskian retreat stopped at a landing. Orders were shouted up the stairs. In front of him, the terrified boys, for that was all they were, squared up. Outside, he heard the rare impact of a spell. He snarled and stepped away from the centre of the thread and gripped his axe in both hands. A warrior stood to his right, the pair of them filling the stairwell. Behind and above, the fighting continued on the battlements. He heard his warriors chanting as they drove onwards, their voices echoing down to lift his spirits even as they crushed those of whom he faced.

‘You will die, boy, if you lift that blade against me,’ said Tessaya into the impasse. He pitched his voice to carry further than the whelp he addressed; a quivering youth whose helm sat too large on his dirt-streaked face. ‘But at least you will know more courage in death than those who command you. Where do they stand, eh?’

‘Who . . . ?’ The Xeteskian didn’t know whether to ask or not, caught between fear and awe.

‘I am Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon tribes and ruler of the Wesmen, ’ he replied. ‘And what a prize should you beat me. The time has come. Lay down your blade and be spared. Or die dreaming of being a hero.’

Tessaya didn’t think the boy even had the courage to lift his sword in attack and in that at least he was mistaken. But in everything else, he was not. Deflecting the ill-learned strike and chopping downwards through the poorly armoured shoulder, he muttered a prayer that the boy be respected by the Spirits.

He stepped across the body, a chant erupting from his lips and taken up by the men around him. Invoking the Spirits of strength, of true aim and keen edge, it was a guttural sound, its rhythm in time with the strokes of his axe.

Tessaya paced forward, chopping up through the defence of one Xeteskian, sweeping left to eviscerate a second and back right and down to hack into the arm of a third. The warrior next to him, voice booming in song, moved in closer, forcing his enemy’s guard down and butting him on the bridge of the nose. The Xeteskian sprawled backwards, flailing his arms, more of a danger to his comrades than the Wesmen.

Tessaya saw the fear in their eyes and the tremble of their limbs. Blood slicked the walls, the floor was covered in gore and the bodies of fallen Xeteskians and the air stank and steamed. The Lord of the Wesmen licked his lips and drove on, breaking them further with every step.

Chapter 3

None of Chandyr’s experience had prepared him for this. He had fought Wesmen before but of course there had been the backing of mages able to break lines and obliterate enemies at will. And in combat with enemy colleges, the balance of spell power gave the warfare a symmetry that he could understand.

But here tonight, hand-to-hand and face-to-face, he was seeing ferocity that was simply awesome. The Wesmen were indefatigable. They were skilful. And they were cutting through his men like paper.

On his horse outside the lost turret, he saw men spill outwards, regroup and push in again. He heard the turret captain yelling for order and getting precious little. The faces of those few around him were lined with fear. Either side, high up on the battlements, the Wesmen taunted his toothless forces. He had so few mages and the spells cast recently had been wasted. Now the chastened casters awaited his order in an arc around the turret. They wouldn’t be kept long.

Chandyr had thought about riding back to the college again. But the mood was fragile and he couldn’t afford to be seen leaving the battlefront. Instead he dismounted and turned the reins of his horse over to the nearest messenger.

Before he spoke, he took in the fires burning on the walls and those buildings onto which the Wesmen had managed to cast torches. He saw more and more join those already behind their makeshift wooden barricade on the battlements. And he didn’t have to imagine the number who waited outside for the gate to be taken.

In the streets around him, the confidence of many city folk had given way to panic. People thronged the main roads, heading for the north gate and the college, no doubt to demand escape or sanctuary. Dystran would not give them the latter. But by the Gods burning, he could buy them time to achieve the former.

His messenger waited expectantly, wincing as roars of triumph sounded from the Wesmen advancing towards the south gate tower along the battlements.

‘Ride back to the college,’ said Chandyr, handing the messenger his badge of command. ‘Use my authority and speak only to Dystran himself. Tell him this:

‘If he is to cast his spells it must be now. We are losing the battle for control of the south gate. He must give us more mage support or they’ll be at the college before dawn. Got all that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Chandyr grabbed the messenger’s arm. ‘One more thing. Tell him he does not need to cast his dimensional spells. We can hold on without them, at least. Go.’

Chandyr watched him mount up and ride away before turning to add his strength to the fight for Xetesk.

Spring nights could be chill and the hours before dawn were the coldest. But Sharyr hadn’t known how lonely they could be until now, particularly not in the company of so many friends and enemies.

Of course it wasn’t just this that set him alone. It was the awesome expectation placed upon him to succeed and the enormity of the risk he was being forced to take to achieve that success.

He and the dimensional team of twenty – hardly enough anyway – had rested in shifts while they made their calculations. They were looking for any edge they could give themselves. Something to provide focus yet minimise exposure to the power with which they toyed. By the time Dystran ordered them to the walls, they had found precious little. Hardly surprising. So little time had passed.

The urgency of the orders had frightened him and he’d led the team at a run from the catacombs. Much of the rest had been a blur of impressions. Voices clamouring. Armour clanking and grinding as soldiers ran beside them. The glare of fires against dark buildings. People running towards them, pushed aside to speed their progress. The smell of wood smoke. The cobbles beneath his feet. The extraordinary din of battle that grew with every pace they took nearer the walls.

The college guard brought them to the roof of a building with clear line of sight up to the embattled walls. Commander Chandyr had joined them almost immediately. Sharyr missed his first words, transfixed by what he saw in front of him. A mass of warriors on the battlements, bodies choking the street below. Fires in two guard turrets. And desperate defence on the ground. Xetesk under threat.

‘. . . are not who I wanted here. Why are you here?’

‘My Lord Dystran ordered us here in response to your messenger. ’

‘I don’t want your dimensional spells, Sharyr. You know my feelings.’

‘Commander, Ranyl has died. Dystran wants to make a statement. We’re all you have and we have instructions about which spells we will use.’

Chandyr nodded. ‘Fine. Then do so carefully. Take out that turret. Destroy the stairway.’

‘Commander, that kind of focus is not possible. The minimum strike area will cover left and right for twenty yards. And that assumes we can keep it tight. The dimensional alignment is not right.’

Chandyr regarded him blankly. ‘You’re talking to me as if I should care or understand. Fifty yards either side is Wesmen. Take them down too.’ He shrugged. ‘I asked for mage support and here you are so do what you have to do. But don’t hurt a single Xeteskian.’

‘Have your mages shield our forces,’ said Sharyr. ‘It’s the only way to keep them safe.’

Chandyr spun round at a renewed roar from the turret. Xeteskians spilled into the street once again but this time could not drive back in. The first Wesmen set foot on Xetesk’s soil.

‘And you’d better do it quickly,’ said Chandyr. ‘Or they’ll be up here too. Don’t let me down.’

Sharyr watched Chandyr stride from the rooftop then turned to his team.

‘You can see the target. You know the risks. Shut out everything. We cannot afford to slip. Are you ready?’ The chorus of assent was loud but anxious. ‘Then we will begin.’

Sharyr felt a charge race through his body and lodge in his gut. The mage team gathered about him. He tuned to the mana spectrum and could see through the chaotic streams the dark outline of the walls. He began to focus, constructing the shape to pierce the fabric of the Balaian dimension to access the raw energy beyond.

One by one his mage team joined him. In the stark colour contrasts that made up the Xeteskian mana spectrum the deep blue mana stream gained intensity. Power surged through every strand.

Like all base magical constructions, this one was essentially simple. The shape was a shifting octagonal column no more than ten feet wide. At its head, gossamer threads wove a complex pattern that mimicked the flows of inter-dimensional space, allowing them to lock onto the chaos outside the Balaian dimension.

The column itself acted as direction for the power they were tapping and as a seal against that power spilling out uncontrolled. Where the column attached to the dimensional fabric was entirely at Sharyr’s discretion. And because this spell was statement as well as destruction, he drove it high into the night sky, issuing the command that activated the threads just beyond a layer of thin cloud.

They felt the backward surge along the column, saw the shivers in the mana light. And that was just the start. With the threads fast on the fabric, Sharyr began to feed energy into the column. Half the team followed his lead.

‘Brace,’ he warned, his words carrying to them across the spectrum in sound and light. ‘And expand.’

They pulled. And in the fabric of Balaia was torn a hole. Immediately, they felt the rush of the forces of inter-dimensional space, apparently grabbing at the hole, trying to force it wider. It was purely a reaction as chaos and order clashed. The mages were ready for it and used it. They allowed the tear to grow to optimum size and only then stiffened the borders, feeding in mana energy and locking it tight.

‘That was the easy part,’ said Sharyr. ‘Column team, prepare. You know this isn’t going to be easy to handle. Alignment team with me, keep your concentration if you keep nothing else. Let’s go looking.’

The information given Xetesk by the Al-Drechar and Sha-Kaan had allowed mages to draw a new dimensional map. They could predict with some accuracy the movement of those dimensions closest to Balaia. They also had some perception of the enormous number of dimensions crowding space. The old notion that all dimensions were somehow occupying the same small area of space had been disproved beyond reasonable doubt. Now it was about alignment. And the more dimensions aligned with Balaia at any one time, the more powerful the spell effect.

Sharyr’s problem was that there was no alignment. Almost, but not quite. And while it was still possible to cast, the streams of energy would not be as focused and would be difficult to control.

Sharyr, using the combined energies of his team of nine, pushed the seeker pulse into the void, already knowing roughly what he would find. They were awaiting a four-dimension alignment. It was expected to begin the next midday. What Sharyr was presented with was a confusion of power streams, still in partial conflict though with a common broad direction given them by the partial alignment in which they were caught.

He could feel the pull of the distant dimensional shells and imagine their ponderous movement. Every heartbeat that passed brought the alignment closer but at this moment there was a problem.

The first and third shells were about in line, the latter moving slightly faster than the former. But the second shell was still way out of place though travelling quickly in relation to its peers. Currently, he couldn’t sense the fourth shell at all.

‘This is going to hurt,’ he said. ‘Brace yourselves.’

Lacking the natural focus alignment would bring, the mages would have to channel the power themselves while holding the sheath spell construct in place to avoid a casting without control. Without a certain end.

On Sharyr’s command, the alignment team poured mana energy into the seeker pulse, changing its polarisation from repulsor to attractor. At once, the part-aligned streams fed into the seeker pulse. Sharyr felt the force thunder through his mind, a sudden and prolonged deluge of crudely directed energy. The seeker pulse bulged under the strain.

‘Hang on!’ Sharyr gasped, sensing the tension in those around him. There was a roaring in his ears, reminiscent of a distant waterfall. ‘Right, let’s use it.’

The alignment team shortened the seeker pulse, dragging the inter-dimensional power with it. Sharyr knew that there was too much to control safely. It raged through his mind while he struggled to hold his concentration.

With the sound of air rushing to fill a void, the inter-dimensional force met Balaian space. It coalesced into thin discs, trailing smoke in their wake. Shaped by the minds of the mages and set spinning by nature. Tens, hundreds of them, cobalt blue and travelling at extreme speed, fled down the octagonal mana corridor. They bounced hard against its surface, the collisions increasing the stress on the structure further, to emerge from its protection to slam into ground, walls and men.