Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 173 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 5

‘Hirad, sit down,’ barked The Unknown Warrior. ‘Let’s decide how to deal with this.’

‘I’ll tell you how we deal with it,’ said Hirad. ‘We go outside, call them out and take them down.’

‘Calm down, Hirad,’ said Darrick. ‘We can’t just run out, swords waving. It’s an unnecessary risk.’

‘It might not mean much to you, General, but these bastards are trading on our name to bleed this village dry. I will not see our reputation ruined by bandits.’

Hirad’s head was thumping, his body tense with the frustration boiling within him. Outside, people who believed in The Raven were being taken for everything they had when, more than ever, they needed every scrap of fortune they could lay their hands on. Perhaps their fortune was about to change. But what really made Hirad seethe was the bad taste that would be left in the mouths of these people whenever The Raven was mentioned again.

‘We can’t just walk out there and kill them,’ said Denser.

‘Why not?’ Hirad jabbed a finger at Ferran. The farmer and his daughter had frozen at the exchange, their mouths slack and eyes widening. Their disbelief at what they were witnessing grew with every heartbeat. ‘These people have been made to think that it’s right that The Raven should take from them anything they want because of who they are. That’s never been our way. It’s a betrayal of all that we stand for. Someone needs to be taught a lesson.’

‘We were mercenaries too,’ said Denser.

‘Yeah, and we were paid a fair price to fight. A good price because we were the best. People who hired us understood the rules. But this . . . this is robbery and I’m not having it.’

He moved towards the door.

‘Hirad, where do you think you’re going?’

‘I’m going to demonstrate who The Raven really are. Back me up, why don’t you?’

‘I know the hurt you feel,’ said The Unknown. ‘I feel it too. We all do. But we do things a certain way. That, as you are so fond of telling us, is why we’re still alive. And now it’s your turn to play by the rules. Sit down and listen. Whatever we do, we do as The Raven.’

The Unknown didn’t have to raise his voice to command complete authority. Hirad paused, nodded and returned to his seat.

They did not emerge until dusk. The last vestiges of the day’s light clung to the tops of the valley but the village was cast largely in shadow. The Raven had talked while the afternoon waned, not letting Ferran light lanterns or a fire in his kitchen. They had seen the impostors patrolling the streets, still on horseback. And from the rear windows of the house had watched them trot past regularly. While not exactly prisoners, it was clear The Raven were not to be given licence to roam Cuff at will.

The leader had visited them once, to check they were settled in and to ask after the whereabouts of the elves. The Unknown had simply shrugged and intimated they had continued on southwards. Without evidence to the contrary, the man had withdrawn.

Ferran had confirmed that there were indeed seven of them, the number popularly associated with The Raven. Hirad wasn’t sure they had convinced him that they were the genuine article. What he did know was that the moment they left the house, Ferran was running for his neighbours to set the rumour spreading, his daughter heading in the opposite direction. They were fulfilling expectations perfectly.

The Unknown led them, Hirad to his right, Darrick and Thraun left. Erienne and Denser were behind them. The track through the village was quiet but the four men who had been paying particular attention to the farmhouse now rode in from front and back, intercepting them as they reached the street. Thraun dropped back to cover any threat from the rear.

Neither pair of riders had any presence. They were uncertain, nervous and looking to each other to make the first move. The Raven made it for them.

‘Better call your leader down here,’ said The Unknown. ‘You’ve got a problem.’

The Raven had weapons sheathed but both Erienne and Denser were ready with shield spells should the need arise. In front of them, a heavy-set man with both hands on the pommel of his saddle spoke.

‘He’ll be along presently, I have no doubt. Now, what is this problem we have?’

‘You all need to hear what we have to say. All seven,’ said The Unknown.

Hirad smiled unpleasantly. ‘Yeah, six men and an elf. You’re a little behind the times.’

‘Listen, you don’t need to test yourselves against us,’ said the heavy-set man, frowning in Hirad’s direction. ‘It isn’t worth your while and we have no wish to spill your blood.’

‘Well, that’s comforting,’ muttered Denser.

The second pair of riders rode around to the front of the standoff. Hirad could hear more hoof beats coming up the village. To his left, a door opened and a man ran across the street, not pausing to knock on the door of the house opposite before barging in.

‘Which one are you, then?’ asked Hirad of the heavy-set man.

‘I am Hirad Coldheart,’ he said without hesitation.

‘I’d heard he was better-looking,’ replied Hirad, no humour in his voice.

‘Stop it, now,’ said The Unknown, turning to him.

The remaining impostors rode up along the street, doors opening with regularity behind them now. The archer unslung his bow as soon as he reined in, the leader trotting calmly to the front of the group.

Looking at him again, Hirad could see immediately who he had modelled himself upon. In fact, he was surprised he hadn’t already noticed, the likeness was that obvious. He supposed he just hadn’t been looking. Shaven-headed, broad-shouldered and strong-faced. The two-handed blade on his back was something else that should have pricked his memories.

‘Don’t fancy yours much, either,’ he said.

The Unknown glared at him.

‘What is it I can do for you?’ asked his double in a passable impersonation.

‘Several things,’ said The Unknown. He glanced around him, looked past the impostors and along the street. ‘Seems we’ve drawn quite a crowd. Good. Here begins the lesson.’

‘Get back to the farmhouse,’ said the leader.

‘Be quiet,’ said The Unknown. ‘And listen. It might just save you.’

The sounds of swords being pulled from scabbards echoed across the instant’s silence. The Raven followed suit instantly, forming up into their trademark chevron.

‘Shield up,’ said Denser and Erienne together.

‘I suggest you lower those weapons,’ said the bandit leader, the only man among them whose sword was not drawn. ‘You will prove nothing by taking us on.’

‘On the contrary,’ said The Unknown. ‘We will prove what we must.’

‘Which is what? That you can beat The Raven?’

‘No, my apparently blind double. That we are The Raven.’

A ripple ran around the villagers close enough to hear and spread quickly to those who could not. The crowd, now more than forty, bunched and moved forward a pace. But the men, women and children still kept a respectful distance.

Hirad watched the impostors stare at them, trying to gauge if The Unknown could be telling the truth.

‘Look hard,’ growled Hirad. ‘Believe.’

The leader snorted, straightened in his saddle. ‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘Just six. One a woman. No elf. And you,’ he pointed at The Unknown Warrior. ‘A little old aren’t you? And if you had heard the stories, you would have a two-handed blade. A pale imitation. It’s been fun. Now it’s time you left before we run you down.’

‘But that’s the trouble with stories, isn’t it?’ said The Unknown, his face a mask, while Hirad felt his own burning with renewed anger. ‘They don’t take account of the passage of time. We have not fought in line for six years and in the troubles that have followed, even we have lost friends.’

‘There is no elf because Ilkar is dead,’ said Hirad, staring down the elven mage. ‘No one lives on his name. No one.’

‘All right, Hirad,’ said The Unknown. ‘So you see the problem we have. We cannot let you simply walk away. You have taken our name and used it for profit. And that is not the worst of it. You have betrayed what The Raven stand for and believe in. We were mercenaries, not parasites.’

‘And you expect these people to believe that you, not we, are The Raven?’

‘I don’t much care who they think we are,’ said The Unknown. ‘All they need to know is that you are not The Raven.’

His voice was pitched to carry to the villagers. Hirad heard the mutterings of conversation. The impostors’ heads all turned, their anxiety rising.

‘You surely don’t believe them, do you?’ demanded the leader.

Unexpectedly, Ferran stepped from the small crowd.

‘We pay you to keep our village free of undesirables,’ he said. ‘If they are such, do your jobs. Get rid of them.’

His words were greeted with assent from those around him.

Hirad grinned. ‘Yeah, Hirad,’ he said. ‘Take me on. Run me out of the village.’ He spat on the ground in front of him, enjoying the tension that grew in the space between them.

‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,’ said The Unknown. ‘You’re going to give back every coin you have taken from this village. You’ll also leave them your horses because you are walking away from here. Your return will be to your graves.’

‘Not a chance,’ said the leader, tone dismissive but fear edging into his expression. He was eyeing The Unknown ever more closely, the doubt eating at him.

‘Your alternative,’ said The Unknown, ‘is not to leave here at all. Mind you, since you’re The Raven, that threat won’t impress you much, will it?’

Hirad saw the band wavering. He knew why. In front of them was unshakeable belief born of fifteen years of winning. The Raven, standing quite still, did not and would not flinch. Their adversaries, even with the advantage of being mounted, were losing the battle of wills. It was what separated The Raven from everybody else. Always had.

‘There is only one Raven, and you aren’t it,’ said Hirad.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The Unknown’s blade struck the ground in front of him.

‘No time to debate,’ he said. ‘Get off your horses now.’

‘Boss?’

There it was, the first vocal crack in the façade. The impostors’ leader scowled. Then he swallowed and looked back at The Unknown, hesitant.

‘You’re out of time,’ said The Unknown. ‘Dismount.’

Tap. Tap. Tap.

‘Go,’ snapped the leader.

He kicked the flanks of his horse. Startled, the animal sprang forward. The Unknown reacted instantly, diving forward and left. Hirad mirrored him right, both men rolling to their haunches. The Unknown was confronted by a wall of horseflesh on the move. Two others had followed their boss and were right on top of Thraun and Darrick. Hirad surged to his feet and grabbed at the arm of the mounted man in front of him. He pulled hard.

‘Mage casting,’ warned Darrick.

‘Shield down,’ said Denser. And in the next instant, ‘Got him.’

Men tugged hard on reins, horses reared and whinnied, dust was kicked into the air. Swords flashed in the dying light. Thraun roared. Metal clashed. A single arrow flew. There was a shout of pain.

Hirad kept on pulling, unsaddling the man. His horse turned sharply, its head butting Hirad, sending him stumbling. The man scrambled to his feet to face his smiling double.

‘So, Hirad,’ he said, beckoning him on. ‘Let’s see if you measure up to the real thing.’

The man lunged forwards, thrusting to Hirad’s open side. The barbarian switched his blade between his hands, blocked the attack aside and drove an uppercut into his enemy’s exposed chest.

‘Didn’t think so.’

Hirad left him to bleed to death and turned back to The Raven, slapping the riderless horse away. From the back of the group, the elf had detached and was spurring his horse towards the gathered villagers.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ breathed Hirad and set off after him.

The mage cast, his ForceCone meeting Erienne’s implacable shield. Denser’s focused Orb drove him from his horse to die screaming in flame on the dry earth. Thraun and Darrick had stopped the fledgling charge of two of the group, and, like The Unknown, had hands on reins or bridles, keeping themselves out of strike range in front of their enemies’ horses.

The last rider broke and galloped away to the north of the village and open ground, abandoning his comrades to their fates. The Unknown beckoned the leader down and waited while he drew his sword. Beside him, Darrick and Thraun killed effortlessly.

‘Are you who you say you are?’ asked the leader.

The Unknown nodded, his sword tapping again. ‘At least you will have faced me.’

The leader brought his sword to ready. The Unknown ceased his tapping, made nonsense of his double’s ponderous defence and skewered his heart. ‘But not for long.’

Hirad sprinted through the crowd and after the elf. ‘Get back here, you bastard. Face me! Face Ilkar!’

He would never catch him but he ran on anyway, hoping for a slip, anything. A shadow moved against the buildings at the end of the village and leapt unerringly. The riderless horse galloped on a little way before losing momentum. On the ground behind it, Hirad saw Auum’s single thrust. He stopped running, smiled and walked back to The Raven.

‘What about the other one?’ asked Hirad.

‘Leaving one to tell the tale can’t hurt.’

He stooped and cleaned his blade on an impostor’s clothing, sheathing it and walking towards the villagers. Hirad glanced around. So easy. So effortless.

‘Not much of a security force, I wouldn’t have thought,’ he said to Darrick.

The General, one hand pressed against his opposite shoulder, tried to smile.

‘No. Can you help me with this?’

He lifted his hand. The arrow had struck him just under the collarbone. Darrick had snapped off the shaft to leave a couple of inches remaining.

‘That was careless,’ said Hirad.

‘Denser let his shield down,’ said Darrick. ‘No blame intended.’

‘Indeed I did,’ said Denser, coming to his side. ‘The least I can do is sort you out. Hirad, why don’t you talk to our new friends or something?’

Hirad shrugged and wandered off after The Unknown. Some of the villagers were walking into the combat area, staring dumbly at the bodies and blood.

‘Looks like you’ve got yourselves some new horses anyway,’ said Hirad. ‘Hope you don’t mind clearing up. Think of it as payment.’

He saw the odd nod and smile but there was wariness amongst the villagers.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You didn’t need them. And they weren’t who they said they were. They deserved it. They were damaging the reputations of friends I have lost.’

The Unknown was standing with Ferran. The farmer was frowning.

‘And what will you do now, take their place?’

The Unknown shook his head, smiling. ‘We’ll move on in the morning, like we said.’

‘Are you The Raven?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘We have tales to tell,’ said Ferran.

‘Fair enough.’ The Unknown looked across at Hirad, who shrugged. ‘Yes, we are The Raven. Very different from the tales you’ve been told, I expect. We’re tired, we’re wanted by both sides in the war and all we want to do is leave Balaia and hang up our swords.’

‘Leave?’ Ferran’s eyebrows raised.

‘We’ve done all we can,’ said Hirad. ‘And there are too many out there who will thank us by having us locked up or executed. Draw your own conclusions.’

Around them, the crowd stood mute. Not quite believing what they were seeing, what they had heard, or what they were hearing right now. Hirad couldn’t help but chuckle.

‘None too impressive-looking, are we?’ he said. There was a little laughter in the crowd. On an impulse, he continued. ‘But we couldn’t let them go. We couldn’t. So many of those they were mimicking are dead friends. And I will not stand by while their memories are sullied by this sort of filth, and while the deeds of those with us now are ignored.’ He gestured at the corpses. One, his double, still breathed. Hirad hoped he was being heard. He continued.

‘We lost Ras at Taranspike Castle, Sirendor Larn was poisoned by a Xeteskian assassin and Richmond died in Black Wings’ castle. All more than six years ago now but they are the names you have been told, are they not?’

There was a murmur in the crowd. Heads were inclined. They hung on his every word.

‘Yet there were so many more. Jandyr, who died on the fields of Parve; poor Will Begman, terrified from his life by the touch of a demon. Aeb, the Protector who sacrificed his soul to The Raven. And Ilkar. Ilkar who even in the act of his death, saved the rest of us. That is what The Raven is. That is who we are and what those of us who remain represent.’ He indicated them one by one. ‘Erienne; Denser; Thraun; Darrick; The Unknown Warrior. And me, Hirad Coldheart, lucky enough to have stood with them all.’

He stopped, aware that he was welling up and that his voice was in danger of breaking.

‘So,’ he said and clapped his hands together, smiling as he swallowed at the lump in his throat. ‘Do you have ale and wine here?’

‘That we do,’ came a voice from the crowd.

‘Good. Then anyone who wishes, join me in raising a tankard to The Raven, all of us. I’m buying.’

The Unknown turned to Ferran as the crowd broke into excited conversation and set off as one to the tavern. ‘Is that a good enough tale for you to tell?’

Ferran nodded. ‘His heart speaks, doesn’t it?’

‘Always,’ said The Unknown. ‘Hey, Coldheart, get over here.’

Hirad strode towards him and found himself enveloped in The Unknown’s arms.

‘Well said, Hirad. Well said.’

Chapter 6

Tessaya ducked as another FlameOrb smashed into the rubble of a building behind him, its deep blue flame gorging on whatever wood it could find. The garish light it cast threw harsh shadows on the walls and ground around him. He ordered another attack on the gates.

Conservatively, he reckoned he had lost a third of his men to Xeteskian sword and spell; most of them when the tower and parapet had collapsed the previous night. Riasu was dead, so were at least two other tribal lords. Tessaya himself was bandaged along one arm, cut and burned in four places he could feel and probably others he couldn’t.

But the belief of the Wesmen was unwavering. Here they stood, in front of Xetesk’s college gates, night full around them and the defenders increasingly desperate as their strength ebbed away.

Tessaya concentrated much of his efforts on the gates though he had tribesmen all round the walls under command of their tribal lords. The tactic was simple. Hit and run. Force them to use spell and arrow. Keep them from consolidating in one place. Fear nothing. Not even the winged demons, impervious to the kiss of metal. Even they could be dealt with if the will prevailed.

Tessaya glanced right. One of the creatures was pinioned beneath the rubble its masters had created. It cursed and spat, struggled and shifted. But the four warriors guarding it simply piled on more stone. It would not escape and its humiliation undermined it. Without fear as a weapon, it was diminished.

His warriors charged the gates with the battering ram they had built outside the walls of the city. An oak trunk with branches thick as a man’s leg. Beside the twenty who carried the ram ran twenty more carrying thick bark shields above their heads. And beside them, archers fanned out, four on either side. And all around the walls, more teams with trunks and ladders, roared on by their tribes.

The noise of song and shout sent a thrill through Tessaya every time he heard it. It was the call of the Wesmen to victory and it filled him with joy. On the walls, the defenders responded. But as it had been with every attack through the night, they were holding back because they didn’t have the spells or arrows to do anything else.

The ram clattered into the centre of the doors, his tribesmen flailing at the familiars who flew in amongst the arrows. Splinters flew, timbers groaned and the spells that strengthened the doors sparked. Arrows and rocks poured down. Three men fell. The ram reversed and simultaneously the familiars withdrew. FlameOrbs and IceWind drove into the bark shields. Warriors screamed and toppled among the fallen of earlier raids. There was no quarter here. The dead would lie uncollected.

The ram went in again and this time Wesmen archers were close enough to fire. Shafts skipped off the walls, chipped shards from the crenellations. Some found their targets. Since the zenith of the night, the defenders had not had the capacity to shield their own men with magic. It was one more indication of their weakening. And every blow of the ram, every spell they were forced into using and every arrow fired from the walls weakened them further.

Tessaya nodded, satisfied. He flexed the muscles of his thigh and felt the pull where a Xeteskian arrow had punctured it. Never send your men where you were not prepared to go yourself. But by the time he was called upon to carry the ram again, he thought the gates would already be down. Soon it would be dawn. It was fitting that the new day should see the fall of Xetesk.

He took another look at the college’s seven towers, soon to be toppled. Men were gathering high up on the tallest of them. Tessaya sniffed. The air tasted suddenly sour. Xetesk’s evil was about to be unleashed once more.

Dystran stood with his dimensional team. Dawn was just below the horizon. He and they had spoken at some length and watched the Wesmen cycle their forces, never giving the defenders a break. Dystran’s mages were close to exhaustion, his archers were almost spent and his commander was at the end of his tether, desperate to get out and fight in the streets. Swordsmen were idle, Chandyr had said, while Wesmen went unchallenged. Dystran wanted them fresh. If this last gambit failed then every sword would be required to defend the tower complex. There was still scope for victory, but timely deployment was crucial. Dystran felt Chandyr was running on emotion, not logic.

He had argued long with Sharyr about the risk. He knew the alignment was incomplete. But the Wesmen had to be knocked back. The moment couldn’t be delayed.

‘Make me proud,’ he said to the team as Sharyr readied them for the casting.

‘Either that or I’ll make you dead,’ said Sharyr sharply.

Dystran respected his strength of belief. It made him a man with whom he could identify; and perhaps one to bring onto the Circle Seven where he could be kept more firmly in control.

‘Just get started,’ said Dystran. ‘You’ll be fine.’

He heard the thud of the Wesmen ram on the gates once more and felt the sharp spike in the mana spectrum indicating stress on the binding spells. All around the college, spells flew out, carving lines of dark blue in the pre-dawn sky. Fires burned in a ring and everywhere he looked Dystran could see Wesmen.

‘Sharyr, if this spell only stops one thing, make it stop that damn chanting. It is as distracting as it is tuneless.’

Sharyr almost smiled at that. He turned to those he could see of the fifteen that encircled the Tower and the casting began. Dystran sent a short prayer to whatever God might be listening. StormFront was a dangerous casting, barely developed and never live-tested. But it was the only one that would break the Wesmen in time. It required accurate construction, visualisation and placement. It needed the power of inter-dimensional space to drive it. And it needed huge mental strength to hold it while the storm coalesced. Everything went into the formation. After release, they could all stand and admire while it washed out to every point of the compass.

Dystran smiled. The situation to test the casting was ideal; the desired formation circumference was just within the boundaries of the theoretically possible; and they were surrounded by enemies. StormFront was designed for exactly this scenario. Its successful casting would complete the suite of inter-dimensionally powered spells and defeat the Wesmen at the same stroke. It would be a most satisfying outcome.

Sharyr was an efficient mage. No fuss. He managed his team closely. Dystran felt the pull of the mana and the order of a focused casting. He almost wished he had joined them. Almost.

The first indication of the casting was an impressive slit in the sky. Blue-edged, it appeared directly above his head and moved out to the periphery of the college where it stabilised. To begin with it was a slice of silk only a few feet long, alluring and delicate. It hardened then, taking on the shape of the spell: an arc, glimmering deep blue and ragged at its height. Abruptly, the arc lengthened. It ran away left and right, faster than the eye could follow, tracing the circumference of the college.

The circle completed. White flashed briefly in the blue mana light. The air hummed. Up on the walls, archers straightened and mages moved to standby, letting their casting constructs disperse. The Wesmen were withdrawing. Dystran didn’t blame them.

The slit opened downwards slowly as the StormFront coalesced. To Dystran’s left and right, mages gripped the balcony rail, steadying quivering legs while the energy washed through them and they fought to first contain it and next, feed it into the casting. He heard Sharyr’s suddenly ragged breathing.

‘Hold on,’ he was urging his team. ‘Hold on. Breathe easy.’

Inside the widening front, forks of bright blue light flashed. There was the roaring of a hurricane punctuated by the bass rumble of rolling thunder. On its lower edge, descending fast now and almost out of sight, the front boiled and bubbled in the Balaian air, hungrily grabbing at the elements to blend with the raw power of inter-dimensional space.

‘Holding steady,’ muttered Sharyr. ‘Focus. Focus.’

The nature of the front changed slowly. It thickened. Its colour turned a deepening grey, muting the flashes within it. A wind whipped up around it. Even at this distance, it picked at Dystran’s cloak. Down on the walls, soldiers hunched behind the battlements. Outside the college, Wesmen ran to the edge of the cobbles by the first rubbled buildings where their fires burned. They thought the spell was a shield but they were gravely mistaken. They had not retreated far enough.

Dystran sampled the construct. Felt its solidity and the effort of the mages keeping it secure while the forces poured in. It was the textbook shape. The casting would be a triumph. All he could do now was wait. The field strengthened further, discordant noise filling the air. The Wesmen had stopped singing.

Next to him, Sharyr stood with every muscle tensed. His forehead was damp with sweat that trickled over his closed eyes and down his cheeks. Dystran became aware of the murmuring of the casting team. Their words were barely distinguishable as they spoke to each other across the construct and used command words that opened up new pathways in the shape, closed off others or bled away excess power.

A frown passed across Sharyr’s face.

‘Instability. Base level. Lock it down.’

To Dystran’s right, a mage gasped with the effort, his teeth grinding. He swayed. Across the surface of the front, chaotic blue light surged and flashed.

‘Spreading,’ said Sharyr. ‘Something’s wrong. The alignment isn’t firming, it’s failing. How can that be . . . Prepare to release.’

‘No,’ said Dystran. ‘Believe. Hold on for full term.’

The top edge of the front rippled violently. Dystran was buffeted by a sudden howl of wind. From the opposite side of the tower, he heard a cry of pain.

‘One out, one out!’ called Sharyr. ‘Release on my mark.’

Dystran pursed his lips. Before him, the StormFront bucked and twisted. Its grey colouring was shot with dark lines. Bolts of pure energy seethed across its surface or grabbed at the ground. The intensity of noise grew sharply, battering at the ears. It was the sound of a thousand dragons breathing fire.

‘Release!’

A moment’s pause and the StormFront surged outwards, precisely as designed. An expanding wall of Balaian elemental destruction, focused and powered by the energy of inter-dimensional space. It would dissipate in no more than seventy to a hundred yards, minimising the risk to ordinary Xeteskians. But before it became little more than a puff of air, it would obliterate everything in its path.

Scant feet from the walls, the StormFront guttered and halted. Dystran staggered under the weight of the backwash through the mana spectrum.

‘What—’ he began.

It guttered again, rippled across its surface then the whole front delivered a blistering white light that scoured the night from the city in an instant. Through the patterns across his tortured eyes, Dystran saw the StormFront blink and suck back towards its starting point, the constant light casting harsh day over Xetesk. At dreadful speed, the circle wound back. The entire construct reversed until just a twinkle of blue mana light remained in the air just above and outside the college gates.

Blackness flooded the void left by the light. Dystran blinked hard, trying to shift the shapes that flowed across his vision. In monochrome, he could just pick out the sparkle of light over the gates, the fires indicating the Wesmen and, too bright to be anything other than a problem, the glimmer from the previous night’s CobaltFury that had never dissipated.

Hypnotised, he watched a strand of blue emanate from the glimmer above the city walls and trace across the sky towards the college. It was pencil-thin and quite steady but Dystran sensed such menace inside it that it made him shudder.

There was no sound he could hear above his own breathing and the crackle of fires and hiss of lanterns and torches. Every waking eye would be transfixed by the line being drawn above the city. Every voice was mute.

‘Sharyr?’ hissed Dystran. ‘Answers. Quickly.’

‘I have none,’ said Sharyr, his voice weary.

Dystran would have looked at him but he was reluctant to leave the spectacle. The points of light were almost joined now and the sense of foreboding growing.

‘It’s going to be a gateway,’ said Dystran. ‘But to where?’

‘You can’t be sure,’ said Sharyr. ‘It’s probably just something caused by the meeting of our elements and inter-dimensional space.’ Sharyr’s tone suggested he didn’t believe what he was saying.

The line of light reached the walls of the college. Alien sound abruptly split the nervous quiet. From the windows of towers, open doors and shadowed recesses, familiars flew. Two dozen and more, all that remained in the college. Gone was the mischievous laughter and the chittering contempt to be replaced by hollow keening and long, high-pitched and querulous wails.