Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 189 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 26

Auum saw it all with utter clarity. He and his Tai moved as one, acted as a single entity, a boiling of controlled action in a sea of confusion. They targeted the reavers. Easy prey for the cell. Strike-strain clawed and buzzed around them and were knocked away as an afterthought. The real threat to the human mages, the wagon drivers and horses lay in the tall strong soul stealers who stalked and dived in the throng of the courtyard.

Duele and Evunn pirouetted together and downed a muscular deep blue creature. It barely had a chance to breathe before Auum pinned it down by its chest. Duele snatched an arm outwards, Evunn backhanded a dagger into the nerve ganglion revealed and the cursyrd died.

Auum rose to his feet. To his left, an Al-Arynaar had become detached from his warrior group. Cloaked in strike-strain, he became confused and disoriented. Quickly, three reavers were on him, lashing in claws, biting and gouging. One clutched him under the chin as he weakened and drained his broken soul.

It would be happening everywhere. Cursyrd flooded the courtyard, dropping from the sky; the strike-strain like malevolent hail, their reaver brethren sails on the breeze. Duele and Evunn came to his shoulders. They watched a change in the cursyrd tactics as the second-wave wagons started to roll. Combat against the Al-Arynaar on the ground and on wagon was both difficult and, should their weakness be exploited, deadly and now they were concentrating solely on the horses, trying to take out the escape’s prime motive force.

Barking out orders and signing the alarm, the Tai cell raced into the centre of the courtyard. They were already too late to save one wagon. The driver was swarming in strike-strain, the flanking elves were under attack from twice their number of reavers, and the horses were being cut to pieces.

‘Leave it,’ said Auum. ‘Left and right. I’ll take centre. Tai, we move.’

The trio split, heading for three separate wagons in the third wave. Al-Arynaar were keeping the cursyrd away on the ground but more fell from the sky. Auum dodged individual battles, increasing his speed dramatically. Dagger in hand, he took off, arrowing feet first into a reaver just landed on the back of a terrified horse. He caught the creature in the side of the head and the two of them hurtled to the ground, the cursyrd disorientated. Auum took a forward roll on landing, coming smoothly to his feet and spinning on his heel, balance perfect.

The soul stealer was struggling to get its legs under it. Auum pounced, stamping a foot into the creature’s neck, wrenching one of its arms up and driving his dagger deep into its nerve centre. He turned and ran back to the wagon, leaping onto the kicker board and straight-punching another which tumbled to the dirt.

Next to him, the driver was screaming in panic, covered in strike-strain. Auum grabbed the man’s face.

‘Calm,’ he said. ‘Drive. I will protect you.’

Slowly, the man focused on him and managed to nod.

‘Drive,’ repeated Auum.

The TaiGethen swivelled and made quick assessment. On the roof of the wagon, Al-Arynaar were holding off the reavers while on the ground warriors and mages kept their perimeter around it. On the roof of an adjacent wagon, Duele danced. Auum could have watched him all day. Feet planted on roof struts or blurring through the air to strike. Arms laid out for balance, block and punch.

To the right, Evunn, like Auum, was standing by his driver. An Al-Arynaar stood on each horse’s back. All three wagons began to move. Across the ground, the bodies of cursyrd and Al-Arynaar were scattered; more of the latter than the former had fallen in the hand-to-hand combats but losses on both sides were climbing. Skirmishes raged across the open space. Warriors drove space for wagons to move into. Spells fired across the ground and into the air. Mages using FlamePalm ran in all directions, burning strike-strain, wounding reavers. Under the eaves of the stables and behind a solid rank of elven warriors, mages cast hard and fast. Cursyrd were being washed from the sky and flung far from the combat. The air stank of blood and burned flesh but still they came on.

Auum nodded at the Al-Arynaar warrior beside him on the kicker board.

‘Clear the driver. I will watch.’

A soul stealer landed heavily on the back of one horse which reared and threatened to bolt, kept in its traces only by the weight of the other which skittered. The driver, with strike-strain being pulled from his back and face, fought for control. Auum jumped lightly onto the animal’s rump, his left foot already coming round to clatter into the upper back of the cursyrd. He planted the foot and struck with both fists, tipping the creature onto the ground.

Beyond the walls the ground shook and the sound of tumbling stone echoed across the city. Auum heard screams. Still on the horse, he crouched and turned to the driver. The Al-Arynaar stood by him, working to keep him clear of strike-strain.

‘Faster,’ he said. ‘We move.’

The wagon picked up pace, the flanking Al-Arynaar being forced to break into a trot to keep up. A movement caught Auum’s eye, high and to the right. Reavers, eight or more, diving hard for the wagon. Not even he could keep them all away. He leaped back onto the kicker board.

‘Above,’ he said to the Al-Arynaar. ‘Trouble.’

The reavers came in steeply, claws first, shrieking fury. Auum stepped up onto the roof with the two Al-Arynaar. It was temporarily clear of enemy. The gatehouse was approaching.

‘Faster,’ he ordered. ‘Gallop.’

He heard the reins snap. The horses took off, happy to be let go, jerking the wagon behind them. Auum knew the mages beneath would lose the spell but others would still be casting. Above, the reavers adjusted their direction, knowing they wouldn’t reach the horses before they reached brief cover. Three of them pulled away, flying over the gatehouse to meet them on their exit. The others ploughed on for wagon and driver. These would strike in time.

A shiver ran across the college. Nothing could be seen, but the sense of power rushing into the air was undeniable. Cursyrd howled and screamed. Hoots of alarm bounced across the courtyard. A concerted roar from the masters above rent the air. Auum smiled. It was mirthless. He dropped his dagger and had two short swords in his hands in a heartbeat.

Above, the reavers came on but they had slowed dramatically, deep inside what had suddenly become a dome of pain. They couldn’t brake in time. Three, wings swept back, tried to change their attitude to feet first. It made no difference to Auum.

‘Take them,’ he said.

He sidestepped the first and drove both his swords deep into its back. Dark gore sprayed into the air but the thrusts were not fatal. The mana shells surrounding the cursyrd were stronger now, making them dangerous even within ColdRoom castings. Auum dragged the blades clear, ducked a claw from another reaver and whipped one blade across its throat, stabbing the other into its eye.

‘Our turn now,’ he spat at the creature as it died.

Across the courtyard, cursyrd broke off their attacks and fled back into the air. Denied mana, Al-Arynaar mages took swords from belts and formed up by the wagons once more. Strike-strain died in their tens and dozens, snared by the same claws that so recently had been hooks to drag through the flesh of men. Reavers not quick enough to flit up to safety were hauled to the ground and hacked to pieces, their skins boiling through bright colours, their veins spewing their life onto the cobbles.

The Julatsan wagon train drove out of the college and south through the city at an easy trot. Within the eleven surviving wagons, human and elven mages with their Al-Arynaar warrior guard searched for space among the baskets and barrels of provisions and water. The ColdRoom shell held steady, covering the train front to back and spilling over into adjacent buildings, keeping the cursyrd at bay for now. Auum moved back to sit by the driver, nodding his respect at the man who, though bloodied and shivering, held the reins steady, determination in every muscle.

But the sky outside the shell was thick with cursyrd, tracking them as they fled to open ground. And what worried Auum was that with the mana density clearly growing stronger, it wouldn’t be long before the enemy could fight effectively inside the shell.

The fate of man and elf hung by the slenderest of threads.

It was dawn in Lystern but the light was dim and the few lanterns they could afford to use burned bright in the gloom. Faces were pressed to every window of the grand council chamber, though that was a misnomer now. The periphery of their ColdRoom castings was scant yards outside the filthy stained glass and across its surface, for the third day running, the flattened seeker demons crawled, searching for the telltale threads of mana they could use to direct their attacks.

In two days, they had lost two casting teams to lightning raids from the winged reavers and had been forced to withdraw into an ever-tightening space. They had too few mages to cycle their strength should they lose any more teams and their warriors were exhausted, trebling their day and night guard on this most precious of resources.

Heryst had no desire to look. Others would tell him if the seekers found what they were looking for. A slight discoloration in their pale underbellies would give them away. He had done all he could, moving the casting teams time and again. But their available area was small enough that it surely only put off the inevitable.

It had all been so sudden. The demons had seemingly become so much stronger. They had known the mana density was increasing but nothing had indicated this ability to strike so quickly and effectively at the heart of his defence. The last message he had received from Blackthorne told him that the wily Baron was under similar pressure and that they were considering running north to Xetesk where apparently the last vestiges of Balaian resistance were gathering.

He had no idea if that was true. So what if The Raven were back on the scene? So what if elves still fought in the open? He had heard nothing from any other college in over fifty days. For all he knew, his was the last that still stood free. Free. He almost laughed at the word. He had been right. They had grown complacent in their sanctuary. Lazy. They hadn’t seen the signs. The growing numbers of demons, the sudden appearance of these seekers early one morning three days ago. They hadn’t pieced it together.

And here they sat as a result with only the tower still to call their own. They had lost, temporarily it was to be prayed, access to all their tunnels and all but one well. If they couldn’t regain some space quickly, the next problem he would be facing was starvation. It was a factor that had escaped none of his dwindling band of survivors.

‘My Lord?’

Heryst took his head from his hands and looked up into Kayvel’s sick pallor. His old friend was dying by degrees. Gods drowning, they all were but something had infected this brave old man in the last days and he was fading so fast.

‘Sit, Kayvel. Gods man, you should be resting.’

Heryst pulled out the chair next to him and Kayvel sank gratefully into it and rested his elbows on the table. In the centre of the table, guards completely obscured the casting trio who held death away from them all.

‘We need a plan,’ said Kayvel gently. ‘They need to hear your voice, your strength.’

‘Do they believe I really have any?’ said Heryst, feeling the spear of doubt that had become all too familiar.

‘Never let them hear you say that. You are their leader. They love and respect you. Don’t ever forget that.’

Heryst nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s so hard sometimes. Just look at what I have brought them to.’

He gestured around the council chamber, knowing what they saw was reflected in every room of the tower they called their own. Dirt, dust and rubbish covered the floors. The stale air was heavy with the smell of lantern oil and sickness. Every man, woman and child carried lice, was clothed in little more than rags and had the lank hair, dark expression and stoop that signified imminent defeat. He knew he looked the same. They had a mirror in one of the latrines but he didn’t think anyone looked in it any more.

‘Yes,’ said Kayvel. ‘It is dirty, it is squalid, it is diseased, and soon we will all succumb one way or another. But out there is the only alternative. Do you really have to ask which any of these people would prefer?’

‘But am I not just prolonging their deaths? Kayvel, you are a realist. You know what is happening to you. If what you have is infectious, well . . .’

Kayvel nodded. ‘And we have had to face it since the first day. But nothing will kill them faster than a lack of faith and belief.’

Heryst sighed. ‘What can I tell them? They aren’t blind and we are failing. What? That they should hang on and hope for salvation? That eventually the demons will get bored and drift away? What can I tell them?’

He felt helpless. He’d have cried but his tear ducts were, like his mouth, dry. How could he give them hope when he had none?

‘You have to give them a purpose and that purpose cannot be simply to hold on until they are overwhelmed. Until four days ago, we thought we were secure enough and we were wrong. Look at the fear. Taste it. Do something about it.’

Heryst looked into Kayvel’s face. He saw the fading light in his friend’s eyes and knew he had to give the dying man something to take with him.

‘You think we should try and leave, don’t you?’

‘Staying here can have but one conclusion, Heryst.’

‘Dammit.’ Heryst rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I can’t make them do this, you know. Gods burning, not all of them are fit enough to travel.’

‘Talk to them,’ said Kayvel, his tone gently chiding. ‘Your silence is damaging.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know,’ said Heryst through a breath. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll stay here with any that can’t travel. None of us will be taken.’

Heryst jolted at Kayvel’s words. ‘I wouldn’t leave you.’

‘Don’t be daft, my Lord.’ Kayvel smiled. ‘I’m too ill to run. At least let me die with dignity because die is what I undoubtedly will do.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, this could all be hypothetical. We don’t know if anyone will want to leave.’

‘Well, let’s find out, shall we?’

Everyone that could be spared from watching, guarding or casting was assembled in the growing light of the grand council chamber now that the seekers were beginning to melt away. While the light was welcome, what it meant was that the seekers had probably found what they were looking for. Heryst didn’t necessarily have much time before the next attack came in.

He took a look around the gathering. He knew every name, he knew all their family histories. He knew their strengths and their weaknesses and he knew their desire to live. He was looking at about a hundred people. All of whom looked back at him, desperate for answers. That wasn’t exactly what he was going to be giving them.

‘I’m not going to patronise you and I’m not going to pretend things are any less desperate than you already know them to be.’ Heryst smiled gently. ‘And things are extremely desperate.’

A dry chuckle ran around the chamber.

‘Kayvel and I have been talking and we are faced with a choice. Long ago, I stopped being the man who told you what to do and we have tried to do everything by consensus. This is why I am going to put this choice to you now. The demons are getting stronger and we are weakening though we are far from beaten. I look at all the faces assembled here and I see the will to survive burning bright. The question is, how will we best achieve our survival?

‘And so to the choice. It is stark. We can stay here. Defend more stoutly and pray for release because it is clear we will not beat them with the numbers and resources we have. Or we can leave. Head north for Xetesk where the rumour is that the last free Balaians are gathering to fight. But I must stress it is only a rumour. We have no confirmation from the dark college, they are silent.

‘You know what we face should we stay here. Making a run for it might seem attractive and indeed we will be in the open air, we will have access to fresh water and vegetables, perhaps even wild animals.’

He paused while the smiles spread through the gathering.

‘But we will also be vulnerable. There will be no walls to guard us, only the ColdRoom shell. And to maintain casting on the move will be difficult. We are going to have to steal our own wagons and horses before we start.

‘Now, again, before you decide for yourselves, think on this. If we strike out, we strike out into the unknown and we might be overwhelmed quickly. Here, we know how long we can hold out, health willing. And there will be those of us who will be unable to travel.’ He held up his hands. ‘Please. Hear me out. Those of you know who you are. You could not survive the trip and you would be a burden on the rest. It is harsh but we must face the full reality.

‘Among those who would not travel is Kayvel.’ Heryst had to pause, fearing his voice would crack. The sick mage gripped his hand tight. ‘It breaks my heart but he knows his condition and he still believes the fit should leave. He will be with those who have to remain behind. He knows what it means and he will not let any be taken by the demons.

‘Think on it, and we will talk at nightfall. Thank you. Thank you all for everything you have done so far and everything that you still have to do. We will prevail. We will survive. Balaia will rise from the ashes of this invasion.’

The babble of conversation that broke out was doused quickly by a screech from below. The demons were attacking again.

Chapter 27

Lord Tessaya was in the forward positions overlooking Xetesk when the demon master approached. Not for the first time, the creature came to speak to the Wesmen. Always feeding them their forthcoming doom unless they joined the fight to bring the colleges down.

Tessaya recalled the offer that had been made the day before. Something to do with the sanctity of the western lands should the Wesmen complete the job the demons had begun in Julatsa. The Wesmen Lord had spies in the field near each college and was not as blind as the demons liked to think he was.

He had his chair brought up for him. It was horse hide, padded and stretched across a hardwood frame. High-backed, it was stitched with the Paleon crest. He settled into it and accepted a mug of herb infusion. He cupped his hands around it gratefully, the warmth combating a little of the freezing midday air. His furs were gathered about his shoulders and he had let his beard and hair grow thick, covering much of his battle-scarred face.

Settling into his chair, his lieutenants around him and every warrior tasked to show nothing but strength and belief, he waited for the demon to issue across the ground. He watched its tentacles rippling beneath its torso and was pleased to see its colour brighten to a mid-blue, its temper already frayed by Tessaya’s lack of respect for its authority.

Closer to, he could see its brow was pinched in hard on its hairless head. Its nostril slits were flared and its long-fingered hands were clasped together in front of its writhing chest. It came to a halt about ten feet from him. It towered better than twenty feet above him, a fetid smell drifting on the light breeze. An imposing figure but impotent to do him harm.

‘You push my patience to its limit, Wesman,’ it said.

‘Let us at least use the names we know we have,’ said Tessaya, taking a sip of his drink. ‘Unless, Drenoul, you wish me to call you “demon”. Can I offer you a beverage?’

‘I would rather chew my own body than accept the filth you drink,’ replied Drenoul. ‘Enough, I have a great deal to do. I will hear your answer to my proposal.’

‘A moment,’ said Tessaya, raising a finger. He beckoned one of his lieutenants close. ‘Speak softly and make as if you are responding to my questions. I think this demon needs to understand its place in the eyes of Wesmen.’

‘Indeed, my Lord,’ said the warrior. ‘One thing that might interest you is that we have received a scout from the college of Lystern recently.’

‘Really?’

‘He reports the college is on the verge of breaking.’

‘Ah, something of a shame. I would hate to see the enemy forces able to divert north to join the Xetesk battleground. Is there any indication as to their ability to hang on for any length of time?’

The warrior shrugged. ‘They like all mages have proved themselves tenacious. It is inconceivable that they will simply roll over.’

‘We will talk more later,’ said Tessaya. He turned back to Drenoul. ‘My apologies, I was reminding myself of the detail of your offer.’

Drenoul breathed out in a snarl. Its fingers unclasped and grasped at the air in front of it. Its colour lightened a shade further.

‘As I understand it,’ said Tessaya, ‘you felt that we would best serve you by attacking Julatsa and its attendant elven defence under your local commander’s direction. The reward for this was a promise that you would not seek to enslave my peoples.’

‘That is an accurate summation.’

‘What I nor my ruling cadre can understand is why you would make this offer. You have consistently told me over the last two years that we could not hope to stand against you once the colleges had fallen and magic destroyed. Yet here you are plainly unable to complete your task and apparently needing my assistance. You’ll understand my scepticism and my reluctance to trust a race for whom utter dominion has long appeared to be the only conceivable goal.’

Drenoul was quiet for some time, forcing its colour back to a more palatable deep blue.

‘We would concede some surprise at the length of college resistance, ’ it said eventually. ‘And we want a swift resolution to allow us to take rightful control over the mage lands and the entirety of eastern Balaia. Those who aid us will be treated as allies in the years to come. Those who stand by or oppose us will be enslaved. There is your choice.’

Tessaya smiled, knowing it a patronising gesture. ‘Or perhaps the reality is that without us you do not have the strength to beat the colleges and never will have. Perhaps you have lost more of your minions than you expected and your forces, finite as they must be, are actually being stretched.’

Drenoul flashed bright sky-blue. ‘And perhaps you need a personal demonstration of our strength, Tessaya. The loss of Wesmen Spirits might serve to remind you of your tenuous hold on your own life.’

Tessaya fought the urge to stand, and instead leaned back further into his chair. ‘But you cannot afford to, can you, Drenoul? Is it not true that should you send a force capable of taking some of my warriors, you would compromise your siege of Xetesk, or of Lystern or Julatsa, and allow them to strike out?

‘You do not frighten me, Drenoul. Nor do you frighten any of those I command. I am aware we cannot kill you or any of your race but neither can you break us with a touch or a cut. My warriors are strong and they are numerous. We can keep you back at will. We have Understone Pass at our backs. We are a problem you wish you didn’t have to face. As are the elves. Easterners are weak, their spirits are vulnerable. And in two years you have failed to break them. What makes you think you will ever be able to break us?’

Drenoul made a move forwards and immediately eight warriors drew their weapons and responded. Drenoul stopped, his colour now a thin, pale blue verging on white.

‘Your words will not save you when we march on your helpless lands, Tessaya. They will ring hollow in your ears. The offer is withdrawn.’

Drenoul floated high into the sky, turned and flew quickly back towards Julatsa.

Tessaya pushed himself from his chair. ‘Withdrawn? Rejected, I would suggest.’ He looked for the lieutenant again. ‘They don’t need us to help them fight in Julatsa, I am certain of it. But they want us out of the way. Every scout that returns from the north, I want reporting immediately to me.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

Tessaya began to walk back towards the fires at the centre of the camp.

‘Something is about to happen. Something critical. I can feel it.’

Dystran and Vuldaroq were studying one of the more arcane and complex texts stolen from the library when the change in atmosphere happened. It was quite sudden, like the sun burning through thin cloud to warm the earth. They were in Dystran’s chambers, surrounded by guards and with their few script-scholars nearby. These latter four were working on language which had defeated both the senior mages.

It took Dystran a while to work out what it was that had alerted his subconscious and caused him to look up and through his closed balcony windows.

‘What has just happened?’ he asked, pushing his chair back.

‘You were struggling to decipher this word and wondered where it was they went, whoever they were, and if there are any of them left,’ said Vuldaroq, a half-smile on his thin face.

Dystran glanced sideways at Vuldaroq as he got up. How strange the fortunes of Balaia had revealed themselves to be. Vuldaroq was a man that Dystran would gladly have seen swinging from a tree in the college courtyard before the demons had invaded. But without losing any of his trademark bite, the head of the Dordovan college had revealed himself to be a man of depth and strength as well as possessing a sharp analytical mind. It had taken him some time to throw off the memories of his flight from Dordover but he and his few mages had proved a tonic in the college of their erstwhile enemies.

If only they could break down the terminology contained in the texts Sharyr had brought back. Something important was eluding him and it was based around an allusion to a people called the Charanacks. They held knowledge, so the text maintained, that had been the basis of the first deal struck between demon and Xeteskian mage well over a millennium ago. Dystran was frustrated. He’d have loved to know who they were. They would almost certainly be worth talking to.

‘I don’t mean that,’ said Dystran. He walked to the balcony doors and opened them, standing inside while his guards gathered about him. ‘Just listen.’

Everyone in the chamber did so. Dystran saw a frown cross Vuldaroq’s face.

‘Quiet,’ he said.

‘Silence more like,’ said Dystran.

He indicated his guards accompany him and he walked out into the fresh air of his balcony. Every day since the gliders had finished their search of the mana trails that identified the positions of their ColdRoom casters, demon activity had been incessant.

They had suffered a number of quick attacks from the reavers that they had been lucky to repel without losing any of their mages and only three swordsmen. And when the attacks weren’t coming in, the creatures swarmed the shell, probing and teasing. They kept up a barrage of sound, hoping to distract their targets, and further away, any who cared to look would see enslaved Xeteskians being herded from one area of the city to another. There seemed no discernible purpose to this barring the sapping of morale.

But now the shell was deserted. Dystran couldn’t see a single demon flying above the college or walking the outer walls. Further afield, he could see no slaves in the streets, no clusters of demons hovering over them as they worked. He could hear no cries of the exhausted, terrified and dying. There was no smoke from cook fires. Nothing.

Far in the distance, he could see the shapes of demons clustered in the air to the north. Confident, he walked the circle of his balcony. Away to the south, the fires of the Wesmen signified their confusing and continuing presence. Dystran wished they’d join one side or the other. Or indeed return to the Heartlands. Occasionally he had seen demons hovering near to the Wesmen. Attacking, talking or simply watching, he couldn’t tell. There were none there now. In the distant east there were more demons. West towards the Blackthornes too. Dark patches in the sky at the edges of the city and beyond.

Dystran completed his circuit and looked up into the sky above the college. In the blue, the vibrating white slash hung. If he tuned in to the mana spectrum he knew he’d be able to see the pure mana flooding into Balaia, strengthening the demons with every passing heartbeat. And occasionally, more demons would travel from wherever it was their homeland lay across inter-dimensional space, swarming into the sky before dispersing about whatever tasks they had been summoned to perform.

There was a crowd at the balcony doors.

‘A trap, do you think?’ asked Vuldaroq.

Dystran shook his head. ‘It isn’t their style, is it? I just don’t understand it.’

‘We should take advantage,’ said Chandyr, who never left Dystran’s side. ‘Bring some of our people into the college.’

‘No,’ said Dystran.

‘My Lord—’

‘No,’ he repeated. ‘Think, Chandyr.’

‘I am,’ said the commander, bristling. ‘We have a chance to save some of our own.’

Dystran ushered them all back inside. He shared the urge to do exactly what Chandyr desired but he knew it was folly. ‘Whether it is a trap or not is immaterial. For one thing, I don’t think you will find any Xeteskians within a mile of the college. Wherever those demons are hovering, that is where our people are, believe me. But even should you bring them in, it is impractical. We can barely feed and water ourselves, let alone any more mouths.’

Chandyr relaxed a little and inclined his head. ‘I know you’re right, it’s just . . .’ He gestured out towards the city.

‘I understand,’ said Dystran. ‘There is no one in this room, in this college, who does not want to save every man, woman and child in our city. But we have to liberate them when we can truly help them. That isn’t now but we will do it.

‘But you’re right, we must take advantage. So don’t stand there. Take the fastest runners you have and let’s get something more from the library, assuming it didn’t all burn. And Chandyr, we don’t trust these bastards, right? So make sure some of your sprinters can cast, won’t you?’