Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 212 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 12

‘I don’t see this lot as being too much of a problem,’ said Denser.

‘No indeed,’ said Sol. ‘Hard to remember a time when I could count an enemy invasion force on the fingers of one hand. A well-placed Jalyr’s Sun should do the trick.’

‘You do realise it can’t be that easy, don’t you?’ said Denser.

‘Of course,’ said Sol.

‘Where do you think we should try and take them?’

Sol looked out over the gently rolling countryside that was so typical of inland Balaia. They were three days easy ride south-east of Xetesk on the southern borders of the Pontois Plains. The land north was beautiful and green, scattered with the purple flowers of heather. To the south the landscape was dominated by the great Grethern Forest, where Thraun used to run as a wolf. But to the east the ground was parched and dying, as if anticipating the disaster about to overcome it and reduce it still further. Its rolls and shallow dips hid the enemy for short periods, though their position could always be marked by the belching cloud, metallic thudding and occasional flash of mana fire that preceded a wash of heat.

The horizon was full of dust and the air tainted with an acrid burning scent that stuck in the throat. The enemy was transforming Balaia into a wasteland and their ambling pace told of a power mighty enough to have no need of urgency. It was clear even from this distance that they did not consider the soldiers and mages of Balaia any sort of threat.

The shock of seeing the enemy and their extraordinary machine had passed quickly enough. The moment’s fear of the unknown had been washed away by relief that only three men walked in front of the machine which, it had been confirmed quickly, was drawing in mana, or rather whatever it was mana became after it had been ignited. It had made sense of the spreading dropouts in the mana spectrum. The huge, bulbous, metallic balloon being dragged on sled runners sent gouts of steam and smoke from multiple chimneys, while from within the thundering of metal parts hammering together occasionally drowned out all speech.

There was to have been a discussion about talking to the enemy. Seeing the spreading destruction left in their wake had strangled that thought at birth.

‘I think as soon as we are ready we should attack. No sense in delay.’

They were standing with thirty mages and two hundred college guard, having ridden to their forward camp late the previous evening. The returned Raven, unable to ride horses because no horse would take a dead man on its back, had joined them this morning.

‘I thought all you dead folk liked to stick together,’ said Denser ‘I’m surprised no more of you came. Solidarity and all that.’

‘They can’t, as I am tired of explaining,’ said Hirad. ‘Not unless their loved ones are standing here too. And add to that, they’re bloody scared of this enemy. Just like me.’

‘But I thought the whole was greater than the sum, if you get me,’ said Denser.

‘And that is why they congregate close together in Xetesk for the most part. But they, like we, have other compulsions,’ said Ilkar.

‘You’ve felt it, Unknown,’ said Hirad. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t. Or you, Xetesk-man. The weight of souls around you. They need something to hang on to. Alone they just get blown away one by one. But together there is strength.’

Ilkar nodded. ‘In our own dimension we congregated because the more that are in one place, the greater the bliss and comfort. Now we congregate if we are not to fade. Not all of them have purpose beyond survival, and for them the dual support of being by their loved ones and in a mass is safe. But for us it’s different. For us to survive, we need a purpose and we need someone living to show us the way. We’re beginning to think that, for better or worse, that’s you, Unknown, and you, Denser.’

‘I’m not with you,’ said Sol.

‘You two are what binds us all, that’s what we think,’ said Erienne, her young frame dwarfed by that of Sol. ‘We can’t prove it, but what we do know is that now we’re back, the further we are from you, the more it hurts.’

‘So you’re saying you want to help us in this fight? I thought you said we couldn’t beat them,’ said Sol.

Hirad hefted the sword in his hand. ‘Yeah, but you have to try, don’t you?’

‘You’re talking about revenge,’ said Sol.

‘Bloody right. Now we’re here, it seems rude not to. I still don’t want you to fight, but if you are that determined, we will stand with you.’

Sol smiled, a little familiar warmth from standing with The Raven seeping into his bones.

‘Well, fair enough, but this isn’t a Raven fight, it’s Xetesk’s. We’re casting. There won’t be anything left for you to confront.’

Hirad’s eyes widened. ‘That’ll give you a bit of an itchy sword hand, won’t it?’

Sol laughed. ‘I’m over fifty. I use the cudgel on unruly drunks but I don’t pick up my sword any more.’

‘But—’

‘Hirad, this isn’t going to be like the old days. Gods drowning, if I walk too far the arthritis in my hip puts me in a chair for two days. That body you’re wearing gives you twenty years on me. At least.’

‘So what’s that on your back, then?’

Sol’s two-handed blade was sitting in its snap-clip fastenings, hilt over his right shoulder like always. He shrugged.

‘You know how cautious I am, Hirad.’

Hirad nodded. ‘Whatever you want to believe. But when the fight begins, I still want you on my left-hand side, arthritic hip or not.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Good. So when are you casting?’

‘About as soon as you stop jabbering, Coldheart,’ said Denser. ‘Just watch what a Jalyr’s Sun can do.’

Ilkar and Erienne blinked in unison.

‘A what?’ asked Erienne.

‘That’ll be the new name for a FireGlobe,’ said Denser. ‘First successfully tested by Jalyr in the Xetesk long rooms seventy-odd years ago, as you no doubt recall from your history.’

The little girl’s face pouted beautifully, and Sol had to suppress a laugh.

‘Why have you renamed it?’ she asked.

‘We renamed pretty much every offensive spell,’ said Denser. ‘And a few others.’

‘Why?’ asked Ilkar. ‘What was wrong with the old names? Never left me in any doubt what the effect was meant to be.’

Denser spread his hands. ‘Well, it was felt, when we eventually got round a table – the three colleges, the elves, barons and Wesmen – that certain spell names were overly aggressive and gave a negative impression of mages. And they had no style either, some of them. No imagination.’

Ilkar’s eyes sparkled. ‘You’re joking, right? You sat round a table and discussed spell names with the Wesmen. Was Tessaya there?’

‘He’s not joking,’ said Sol. ‘And yes, he was there. Still going strong too, our lord of the united tribes. Made some good suggestions on the names too.’

‘Didn’t you have more important things to discuss?’ asked Erienne. ‘Like how to get the birth rate up and repopulate the place. How you were going to rebuild the country. Tiny trifles like that? Seems to me you’re trying to reinvent mages into some outdated romantic ideal. Bit stupid, really.’

‘Say what you think, my love,’ said Denser. ‘I hate it when you vacillate.’

Erienne smiled, the gaps in her teeth augmenting her air of innocence. ‘So go on, then, what did you call HellFire?’

‘Could I point out that we have an enemy advancing on us? Slowly, I admit, but advancing.’ Darrick hadn’t taken his eyes from them. ‘You’re going to miss the best place to cast this spell if you don’t get on with it. If they get another half a mile closer, you’ll have lost the slope for any infantry advance and your watchers back there on the hill will be feeling a little close to the action. I presume they are to run if it all goes wrong?’

‘Bloody soldiers,’ grumbled Ilkar. ‘Always have to be so practical.’

‘We’re in danger of losing focus,’ said Darrick. ‘And that would surely be catastrophic.’

Sol nodded. ‘He’s right of course. Thank you, General. Let’s get the mage team preparing. They need space and a little peace. Any of The Raven who want to stand with me, I’d be honoured.’

‘I wouldn’t stand anywhere else,’ said Hirad.

He moved to Sol’s right-hand side and Sol felt a tingle through his entire body, even though the sight of their borrowed bodies made him sad. He had to stop himself reaching for his sword. Sirendor came to stand on Hirad’s right, the place Thraun had filled after Sirendor’s death. Ras came to Sol’s left, standing next to Aeb, once a huge warrior from the disbanded Protector calling, now in the body of a street fighter, short, squat and powerful.

In the old days Ras would have taken position with Richmond but his nine-year-old’s body could not handle a sword and he was standing frustrated behind the mage line. Darrick completed the line to Sol’s left. Erienne and Ilkar were with Denser while the Lord of the Mount issued his instructions to the casting team.

‘Gods falling, we’d better get this spell right,’ muttered Sol.

The air became taut. Mana poured into the spell construct as it expanded. Sol couldn’t see mana, only a mage could tune into that spectrum of light, but he knew well enough what he would see if he could. Long hours with Denser drawing him diagrams had seen to that.

A circle, widening every moment and with lines criss-crossing it like hundreds of spokes on a cartwheel, to keep it under control. The shape would be a deep, pulsing blue, the colour of Xeteskian magic. Once the circle had reached the required size, more power would be fed into it. The lattice of lines would bow out above and below, like the inflation of a pig’s bladder for a child’s game. The lines would glow brightly. They would strain and then they would hold.

The spell was almost ready to cast. Denser, his eyes closed, his body linked to the construct but not a part of it, spoke final words of encouragement to his mages. Their faces were red and sweating. They were all blowing hard, concentrating everything they had on keeping the shape steady.

Denser opened his eyes and smiled. He looked out over the enemy, still half a mile distant. The concentration of mana had caught their attention. Heads that had been looking down now gazed directly at the group of mages, whose spell, invisible to the naked eye, would be bobbing just in front of them, awaiting release on Denser’s command.

As if in response, a resonance built up in the air. A cloud quickly formed above the machine. It was shot through with lightning spears of colour. Yellow, green, orange and blue clashing and exploding. Another wave of heat pulsed out. Fire raged briefly in the wake of the machine and more of the Balaian landscape was turned to dust and ash.

‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Sol.

‘Me too,’ said Denser. He turned to Erienne and smiled. ‘Cleansing Flame.’

‘What?’

‘HellFire, my love,’ he said. ‘It’s now called Cleansing Flame.’

And accompanying her delightful child’s laughter, Denser inclined his head and the Jalyr’s Sun was released.

Barely fifteen feet from the ground, the deep blue sphere, flashing with white and blue light deep in its core, sailed out from the casting team. It was vast. Forty yards in diameter at best guess.

‘You really mean business, don’t you?’ breathed Hirad.

‘People really shouldn’t take bits of my country away without asking, should they?’ said Denser.

The sphere crackled with barely suppressed power. It increased in speed as it approached the enemy, and veered sharply up right in front of them. Their eyes followed it. The beasts pulling the machine ignored it completely. A curt nod from Denser and the sun set on the invaders.

The sphere dropped like a stone, impacting the ground and the enemy, bulging at its base before exploding in a deluge of blue fire. A hot wind rushed out, forcing Sol to turn his head briefly. The sound of the detonation rattled overhead, a thunderclap in a clear sky.

In its midst the invaders had been obliterated. Sol could see nothing of the three who had been walking in front of the beasts, nothing at all. One of the two beasts had let out a brief wail but now both huge corpses burned blue, the flame eating them to ashes faster than the eye could see. Grass, bush and tree had been scorched in an instant. Through the clouds of smoke all that could be seen was the machine, glowing red in the heat, its seams turning white.

The sound of metal straining and rivets popping echoed across the land. The shell of the machine was expanding. Sol put his hand up to his eyes to protect them from the fierce heat the Jalyr’s Sun had caused. He could see masts buckling and melting, funnels falling and the links of chains turning to drips of molten metal. A metallic screeching and grinding scattered the watching mounted guard. Everywhere men and women clamped their hands over their ears.

Steam and an oily smoke erupted from bursting seams and through the torn openings of funnels. The blue fire continued to gorge on the metal, eating quickly through the shell. A dull thud was felt through the ground. In the side of the machine a dent had appeared, as if smashed there by the fist of a giant. The next instant it bulged back out with an agonised tearing sound.

‘Down!’ yelled Sol. ‘Shields. Shields!’

He dropped to the ground, dragging Hirad with him. He put his face to the dirt and covered his head with his hands, praying everyone was following his lead. The machine exploded. A scream was torn from Sol’s lips, lost in the teeth of the detonation that roared overhead, filling the sky.

He dared a look. Ash and dust were a thick, choking cloud. Ripped metal sheets whistled overhead. Others sailed high into the sky, turning and spinning. The air was hot, painful in the lungs. The blue of the mana fire was gone, replaced by the orange and yellow of burning wood and glowing metal. All around him pieces of the machine were beginning to fall to the earth, slapping onto the ground and into defenceless bodies.

‘HardShields up,’ said Ilkar and Erienne together.

More debris drummed onto the outside of their dual shield, harmless now, bouncing or sliding to the ground around The Raven. Sol could hear other shields being cast. He could hear the screams of the wounded too. They would have to wait just for a moment. He rose to his feet and brushed himself down, giving Hirad a helping hand when he was done.

Denser lay where he was for a moment before rolling onto his back and spitting dust from his mouth.

‘HardShield,’ he said, getting gingerly to his feet. ‘I think you’ll find you mean Orsyn’s Cocoon.’

Ilkar just laughed. ‘Call it what you like, Denser.’

The air had stilled and Sol turned back to the devastation the Xeteskian spell had wrought. Small fires burned all over the ground and the base of the machine flickered with dozens of flames.

‘We need to see to the wounded.’ Denser was behind him, talking still.

‘Agreed,’ said Erienne. ‘A somewhat unexpected result, wasn’t it?’

‘Indeed,’ said Denser. ‘I hope no one is too badly hurt. Something wrong, Sol?’

Sol didn’t reply. He began walking towards the husk of the machine. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, burning parts and charred debris were disappearing, plucked by an unseen hand. So were the bodies of the beasts.

‘This can’t be good.’

The wreckage of the machine blinked out of existence, leaving baked earth beneath it and runner marks as the only evidence it had been there at all. Sol stopped and began to back away. At the edge of his hearing there was a whine like the distant buzzing of bees.

Fifty men stood before him, no more than a hundred yards away. Big men. Eight feet tall and more. Armoured from head to toe. Another fifty. Then another hundred. Another harvesting machine appeared behind them. Sol was rooted to the spot. He could hear Hirad shouting from just a few paces behind him but could do nothing but stand and stare.

Every one of the enemy had something in his hands. Not a sword nor a spear but surely a weapon of some kind. They raised the weapons and pointed them at Sol, at The Raven, at the whole Xeteskian force. And they began to march.

The Unknown swallowed.

‘Oh shit.’

Chapter 13

The south walls of the college rocked once and simply crumbled. Heryst, standing on the wide raised courtyard of Lystern’s tower had not even seen what had hit it. It hardly mattered.

The enemy had reached the city boundaries and not even paused for breath. Terrified people ran before them. The few who stood up to them had been trampled underfoot, rendered to dust. A swathe of destruction two hundred yards wide and expanding angled directly towards the college gates. Buildings had rippled and fallen. He’d seen streams and teardrops of pure white light streaking out from the approaching attackers.

Mages had dropped spell after spell on them. And all it seemed to do was bring more of them to the fight. Twenty armoured soldiers walked lazily over the rubble they’d created. In their wake came the machine his mages told him was sucking the mana from the air. The Heart of the college was next.

College guard and mages streamed into the lower courtyard below him. City folk were running in the opposite direction, fleeing north, heading out of the city.

‘Volley!’ he yelled into the tumult, unsure if anyone could hear him to relay his message. ‘Volley!’

In truth, his orders were immaterial. Order existed but barely. Archers, the precious few he had, were firing at will. A truly pointless exercise it seemed with shafts bouncing off armour wherever they hit. But still they tried.

The noise seemed to intensify with the heat belched out by the machine. Another cloud was forming above it, crackling with energy, shot through with green light, draining away the power of Lystern, college of magic. Heryst fought the urge to cry, to turn and run from his utter helplessness. He was surrounded by his leading mages and every one of them looked to him for direction.

‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘Give them everything you’ve got. Pour fire and ice on them. Take them down. They can’t reinforce forever.’

Mages began casting and Heryst did too. A wildness gripped him and he found he did not care if what he did stopped them or not. He just wanted some of them to die at his hand. Heryst had always been an accurate and efficient mage. His casting was sure and quick; IceBlades were his favourite attack.

He targeted the centre of the enemy line, brought his hands together palms up and sides touching, and blew gently along the line of his fingers. The casting fled away, multiple flechettes of ice, flat, needle-pointed and with razor-sharp edges, flying to their mark. Heryst kept his hands steady. In the smoke and dust the enemy would not even see them coming.

Moments later they struck, snipping through armour and biting deep, pushing and burrowing before the heat of the target body rendered them useless. The enemy howled in pain. Blood spurted and streamed from countless wounds in his chest and head. He dropped his weapon and put his hands to his helmet. He fell to his knees and pitched forward.

More spells poured in from the upper and lower courtyards. More ice and fire, deluging their foe. Three more were cut down, two bodies burning where they lay. Lystern gathered a little confidence. Heryst prepared to cast again. Once more his preparation was smooth.

The enemy continued to advance, curious light chasing itself across their armour, illuminating what looked like runes or figures. Heryst chose his target and cast. The Blades struck the enemy’s armour, which flared blinding white in response. Heryst shut his eyes reflexively, opening them again to see the armour of every invader beginning to pulse.

In moments the figures were obscured by the glare coming from the lettering covering their bodies. Tongues of light lashed out on the crest of a wave of force. The tower of Lystern rocked on its foundations. Below Heryst, men and women were screaming. He had never seen such carnage. Heads, limbs and body parts littered the ground where just a heartbeat before sixty and more mages and archers had been standing. Some had survived the onslaught but the enemy turned on them. White light like teardrops poured from the complex rods they carried, tearing into the helpless wounded, blowing them apart.

‘No!’ screamed Heryst.

‘Time to go, my Lord,’ said Kayvel, returned from the dead and still standing by him though his new body was hardly more healthy than the one in which he had died.

‘We must fight.’

‘We cannot, Heryst. It is as I told you. They are too strong. Cut the head from one beast and ten more appear.’

All the energy, all the strength and belief flowed from Heryst and he sagged, letting the sound of the machine and the dying cries of his own people wash over him. From the upper courtyard mages still cast. One section of the courtyard wall exploded inwards. More died. It was a procession.

‘Then what can we do?’

‘The only thing that is left. Get to the Communion Globe and warn the others. Tell them to run.’

Heryst nodded, direction giving him something to cling on to for just a while longer. He ran from the courtyard shouting to his people to run, to save themselves in any way they could. The rumble of falling masonry was loud in his ears. The stonework shook beneath his feet. The tower of Lystern was coming down.

Heryst took the long spiral staircase two steps at a time. Everyone he met he ordered away from the college. Down beneath the still-beating Heart he went to the chamber of the Communion Globe. Outside the door two frightened-looking guards remained at their posts.

‘There is no hope,’ said Heryst. ‘Go. Save yourselves if you can. Do not fight. Run north.’

‘My Lord, we are sworn—’

‘I release you from all such bonds. Go. Please.’

He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Peace descended. All he could feel was the rumble of the approaching machine and all he could hear the distant crump of collapsing stone. Not long now.

‘Xetesk. I must speak to Xetesk.’ Heryst half-threw the nearest mage from his chair. ‘Enact the ward. Lock that door.’

He sat down and placed his hand on the silk.

Sharyr had retired from the research and casting of dimensional magics after the demon wars. The fact was, he couldn’t stand casting at all after it was over. His hands weren’t steady, his mind wasn’t sharp and he had simply had enough. But when Denser asked him to be master of the Xeteskian Communion Globe, he had felt it was a job he could safely accept. Not difficult and yet commanding great respect among the colleges and even the elves.

Since the failure of the Globe on Calaius, Sharyr had spent much time in the chamber, set away from prying eyes, deep in the catacombs. Rumour had it that not even Dystran knew where it was but Sharyr didn’t believe that for a moment.

They had not raised a whimper from the elves.

Sharyr was not an old man, though like every veteran of those terrible days he surely felt like one. He’d managed to keep his hair, an achievement of which he was proud. But still the nightmares plagued his sleep and tripped up his bladder. One day he was certain it would all fade away. One day.

He sat in one of the six low chairs with his hand on the silk, on call just in case he should be needed to help channel messages through to Denser out in the field. Just like his last conversation with Heryst over in Lystern. The enemy would be at their gates now. But their Globe was still active and stable. In Xetesk they could feel it.

‘What if the Calaian Globe isn’t actually down but the focus of the spell has shifted for some reason,’ he said as the thought occurred. ‘We assume a certain shape to their construct, and it is that we cannot find. What if we should be looking for a slightly altered shape. We should think what the construct might look like if it was, you know, just ever so slightly tuned out or something.’

‘Master Sharyr. It’s Lystern,’ said a voice from across the Globe.

‘I’m here,’ said Sharyr.

He settled more deeply into the chair, flattened his palm against the silk and fed his own Communion structure into the Globe where it joined with the other five to amplify and solidify the contact with Lystern.

‘I am Master Sharyr and this is Xetesk.’

What came back when the contact was open sounded like screams and rock falls. Nothing should penetrate the sanctity of the Globe chambers.

‘Lystern, speak.’

‘They are at the doors. They’re at the damned doors,’ shrieked a voice consumed by terror.

‘Heryst? My Lord Heryst, is that you?’ Sharyr’s heart was pounding. He could feel the anxiety of his team adding to a rippling in the construct. ‘Steady. Steady.’

‘Sharyr, listen to me.’ A second voice. Calmer. This was Heryst. ‘The enemy have breached the college. The tower is coming down around us. They—’

A massive crash sounded. Sharyr pressed his hand to the silk to stop himself jerking it away to hold over his ear. He winced as the report fed through the Globe. At least one of his team lost the casting.

‘Get yourself back in,’ he hissed. ‘Steady it. Come on. Breathe.’

‘Dear Gods above. The Heart. Stop them.’

More sounds of destruction. Sharyr heard a scream, cut off abruptly. The Communion flickered and steadied.

‘Heryst. Can you hear me?’

Sobbing from Lystern. Screams and explosions. It had to be happening right outside the chamber. Or within.

‘It’s gone,’ managed Heryst, his voice tight and whispering. ‘They’ve ripped it right out of its cradle. Dear Gods burning, we are finished.’

‘What, Heryst, what?’ But he knew.

‘The Heart, Sharyr. Taken and consumed. Listen to me. Run. Do not fight them. You cannot possibly win. Tell Denser. Call off his attack. Save lives, it’s the only—’

A cracking of timbers.

‘They’re here. They’re inside,’ hissed Heryst.

‘Who?’ urged Sharyr. ‘Who is inside? What are they?’

A strangled cry and the Globe flickered.

‘Where are they?’ demanded an alien voice that bounced in Sharyr’s skull. It was strangely melodic but this did not disguise either the power or the menace.

‘Who?’ Heryst’s voice was cracked and desperate.

‘Those who light the way. Those who will seek the path to us.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Heryst. ‘Please, you have what you want. Spare my people.’

Sharyr heard the sound of something cracking. Bone and cartilage. The alien voice said something else but he couldn’t pick it up. The voice of another of the Lysternan Globe team began to speak. Something fell, something heavy.

The Communion Globe was silent, reducing to a dull grey.

‘Heryst? Heryst, can you hear me? Any of you?’

Sharyr kept his hand on the silk still, praying for the contact to be re-established. Futile. All he could hear was the hard breathing of his team.

‘They’ve gone,’ said one. ‘They’ve gone.’

‘Did anyone catch what the other voice said?’ asked Sharyr, his cracked voice echoing painfully in the Communion chamber.

‘I believe so, but it hardly matters,’ said the mage to his right. ‘Garonin, or something.’

‘Everything matters right now. Go and look up that word. Any clue as to who they are could help. I’ve got a feeling I heard it before when we were researching dimensional alignment. Those texts weren’t in the library; they’re still down here in my old work-shops. ’

‘As you wish, Master Sharyr.’

‘And the rest of us, let us not be next,’ said Sharyr. ‘Let’s get this construct back steady. We have to get hold of Lord Denser.’

‘Unknown! Get down!’

The impact in Sol’s back sent him sprawling to the scorched ground. The earth vibrated beneath him with the force of multiple explosions. He heard screams and rolled onto his back. His scabbard dug in painfully. Hirad and Ras were both above him, looking towards the enemy.

‘What di—?’

‘Down!’

Hirad again. The barbarian in a merchant’s body flung himself on top of Sol. There was a distinct clicking sound like the unlatching of many doors. An arc of white pulses in the shape of teardrops fled over Sol’s head and slammed into helpless mages, soldiers and mounted guards.

Defensive shield castings collapsed under the onslaught, flaring deep blue as they failed. Light ripped through bodies, obliterating people, punching holes in torsos and tearing horses apart.

‘It’s going to be a slaughter,’ said Hirad.

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Sol. He pushed Hirad off him, got to his feet and snapped his sword from its clasps. ‘Let’s get to it.’

‘Raven!’ roared Hirad. ‘Raven, with me!’

Sol was ahead of him, charging towards the slowly advancing line of enemies. They were huge, all of them tall and powerfully built. Covered from head to toe in armour that seemed to glisten in the sunlight. Numerals and lettering woven into breastplates and leg guards shone.

‘Get amongst them,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘They can’t shoot at you if you’re inside their guard.’

More fire spat from enemy weapons. Sol felt the heat as a teardrop fizzed past his shoulder. There was no time to check how far behind the rest of The Raven or the Xeteskian guard were. He ducked his head as more fire whipped about his ears. He felt the pain begin to flare in his damaged hip and whispered an apology to his wife and sons.

‘What do you think you’re doing, old man?’ he muttered.

Sol brought his sword to ready and hoped he remembered how to use it. There was not a flicker from his target. The enemy were well spread out, marching forward carefully. Detonation followed detonation but Sol dared not look behind to see what was happening.

The man in front of him had turned his weapon. Sol ducked reflexively. A teardrop smashed into his blade, shearing the top clean off above his head. His hands rang with the vibration of the impact. Sol swung the remainder of his blade through two-handed. It thudded hard into the midriff of the enemy just beneath his arms. Sol’s momentum carried him straight on, barging the man off his feet.

Sol landed on top, snatched a knife from his belt and jammed it under the chin strap of the enemy’s helmet. The scream of death was a keening wail. Blood pumped from the wound briefly and the man lay still. Sol rolled away, coming to his feet in time to see Hirad and Ras enter the fray. A few paces behind them came the rest of The Raven, mages behind warriors, magical shields in place for what good they would do. He knew it was them behind the masks of their borrowed faces but still he worried. They looked so ordinary.