Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 232 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Chapter 44

‘Where are we going?’ asked Diera.

Densyr stopped and turned to Sol’s family. The three of them, and the wolves that flanked them, were scared witless by the astounding noise from above and the echoing organisation of Xetesk’s last defence all around them. The continued barrage had brought down various ceilings throughout the catacombs and the place where he had been keeping Diera and the children was no longer safe. Every corridor was full of smoke and dust to a greater or lesser degree. Wounded guards and mages left blood trails on the ground. The whole maze was awash with fear.

‘I have to get you to a place where we can get you out if we have to.’

‘Wait, wait,’ said Diera, hugging her children close to her. ‘This is going back towards the main entrance, isn’t it? Back towards the Garonin.’

‘The only entrance,’ said Densyr. ‘I’m trying to give you the best chance if we’re compromised here. Do you trust me?’

Diera hesitated before inclining her head. ‘Do I have any choice?’

‘Nowhere is safe in Xetesk,’ said Densyr, feeling a weight of responsibility greater than any he had experienced in his time as Lord of the Mount. ‘But I will not put you at unnecessary risk. I’ve made mistakes. You won’t be another of them.’

Densyr looked into Diera’s eyes. And then into Jonas’s. He found the strength there that he needed. He turned and led them back into the centre of the catacombs. Another huge jolt shook the whole underground structure. Densyr lost his footing and stumbled into the wall at his right hand. Young Hirad had fallen and grazed his knees. Diera scooped him into her arms, letting him sob into her shoulder.

‘Where are we now?’ asked Jonas.

‘Map room just ahead and right. Old Soul Tank chamber this door on your left. The Heart is below us now and my tower a little way ahead. Let’s keep moving. Everyone all right?’

‘Still alive, anyway,’ said Diera.

Densyr moved on. There was a worrying groaning of stone above. Some part of the complex struggling under the Garonin assault. One of the wolves was whining. They were approaching a hub. Figures were rushing past the corridor and he could hear anxious shouts echoing down to them. A second, lesser jolt rattled through the catacombs. It was followed by a hideous cracking sound.

‘Oh dear Gods,’ breathed Densyr. ‘Run. Quickly. Follow me.’

Densyr grabbed Diera’s free hand and pulled her with him. Mages ran past them and away back towards the dimensional research chambers.

‘It’s coming down! Run, my Lord Densyr, run!’

‘What’s coming down?’ demanded Diera above the groaning, cracking sounds ricocheting down from above. Plaster fell from the corridor. ‘Denser!’

Densyr said nothing, dragging them into the hub room. To the right, the roots of his tower plunged deep into the ground. Passages ran down either side of the foundations. Gaping cracks had been torn in the stonework and the wall was vibrating. He led them left and away towards Dystran’s chambers.

‘Denser!’

‘It’s my tower,’ Densyr called over his shoulder. ‘Don’t look back.’

The corridor down which they now hurried was shaking violently. Debris and plaster fell. There were small cracks in the floor at his feet. Hirad was screaming. Diera tried to comfort him though her voice was trembling. Jonas kept up a running commentary, encouraging them, keeping them running. So much his father’s son.

A thunderous crash hurled them all from their feet. A torrent of stone and metal barrelled through the roof of the catacombs, sending dust rushing down all the passages away from the hub.

‘Down!’ yelled Densyr.

Diera covered Hirad’s head. Jonas was lying half on his mother. The dust howled past them, carrying with it shards of rock and wood. The wolves ran on, away from the avalanche at their heels. The sound of the falling structure, the noise of rock on rock, splintering timbers and the grind of twisting, tearing metal, boomed around their heads. On and on it went. Densyr felt debris cover his boots and the lower part of his legs.

As the din subsided, he could hear crying. He lifted his head, relief making him a little light-headed. Diera and Hirad clung to each other, tears streaking their grimed faces. Jonas was shaking muck from his back, legs and hair. Densyr stood and held out his hands. Behind them, the hub and corridors were gone, filled by tons of rubble.

‘Come on. The enemy will be down here next. We have to make one short stop and then get out of here.’

Diera got shakily to her feet and looked behind her, gasping in a breath. Hirad had stopped crying but wouldn’t be put down. Diera nodded and gestured Densyr to lead on. Jonas came to his shoulder.

‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Light a fuse, in a manner of speaking. One long enough to allow us to get out.’ Densyr dropped his voice as they took a right turn then another left. ‘Can you use a sword?’

‘My father taught me a few things.’

‘Good. We’ll find you one. Just in case.’

‘You will do no such thing,’ said Diera.

Densyr didn’t pause or look behind him. ‘Sorry, Diera, but you need to know what the collapse of my tower means. The outer defence has failed. We can assume no one has survived up top. The Garonin will be down here ripping the walls out to get to the Heart. We’re liable to run into some of them. Right turn, Jonas. Second door down on the left. Go straight in.

‘We have little choice but to arm ourselves. Just in case.’

‘Where are the wolves, Mama?’ asked Hirad.

‘They’ll find us again,’ said Diera. ‘Don’t you worry.’

She caught Densyr’s eye and he did nothing to hide the doubt he felt. He ushered Diera and Hirad intro Dystran’s chambers and closed the door on the disaster unfolding outside. Densyr cast his eyes around a dust-filled oasis of calm. A fire was in the grate. A servant was pouring tea and Vuldaroq was seated in front of Dystran, a hand on his wrist.

‘How is he?’ asked Densyr.

‘Fading,’ said Vuldaroq. The old Dordovan Tower Master took in Sol’s family. His face cleared and he smiled. ‘It’s time, is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Densyr.

‘He can’t speak but he can hear you,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘But he is proud of you and the decision you’re taking. As am I. It is a fitting end.’

Densyr knelt by Dystran. ‘We’ve had our battles, my Lord Dystran. But I like to think we’ve carried ourselves with respect. Most of the time, anyway. The Garonin are crawling all over this place. You know what to do. Don’t leave it too long. Don’t build too much. You will be remembered as a hero of Xetesk for this even more than the demon wars. May your soul find peace.’

The slightest of smiles crossed Dystran’s face. Densyr rose.

‘Come with us, Vuldaroq.’

Vuldaroq shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Densyr. I’ll stay with him. We both need the rest.’

The two men shook hands. Pain flitted through Densyr’s head. Dystran had begun his work.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Diera.

Densyr smiled. ‘The end of magic, Lady Unknown. Only way to make this world not worth further plundering. Come on, we’ve fresh air to breathe.’

The yearning was overwhelming. Sol knew there were tears falling down his cheeks. He knew he should feel the anxiety that the rest of his friends were experiencing as they awaited the inevitable attack. But he felt a joy that he could not confine. The hopes of every soul around filled him. Their lights shone so bright within him.

Sol reached out to gather in the strength of The Raven. He could touch each one of them. The huge presence that was Hirad. The determination that shone from Erienne. Ilkar’s stoicism through his frustration. Sirendor’s will buoyed by Hirad’s refusal to let him fade. Darrick’s calm purpose. Thraun’s animal power. He would have wished for more of them to be with him, but they were enough.

The weight of the body of souls was his foundation. The Raven were his keystone. Sol opened his soul to the void. Warmth washed through him. He had never paused to wonder how he would find their new home. The soul searches and the soul finds, so Auum had said. And it was true. He could smell trees and flowers, sea and stone.

Yet there was nothing to see. There was no passageway down which to travel, no door that needed to be opened. There didn’t need to be. Sol was all these things and he was the bridge to a place he would never see. A place where hope would be kindled by the fact of his death. Yet a place open to plunder unless the final battle was won.

Sol opened his eyes to find his vision changed. He could still make out the forms of his friends standing in front of him but they were altered. They were shadows again though now with a pulsing white soul energy that coursed around them. The Garonin too were changed. No longer the tall imposing soldiers he knew. They too were silhouettes though no energy shone from them. They were dark mist. No soul, no cohesion.

Sol breathed in the wonder of it all, forgetting for the moment that the enemy were massed to attack. The ivory of the land had gone too, so had the blackness in the sky. It was an even grey to Sol and there was what looked like dust in the air. Clouds of it. Not dust, he realised with a gasp. They were the marks of souls. Thousands, maybe millions. Travelling towards life or to their rest. Painting patterns in the comforting grey, like flocks of birds in flight.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he breathed.

‘Unknown.’ Hirad’s voice. Close. Sol looked and thought he could make out the barbarian’s shadow. ‘Unknown, can you hear me?’

‘Yes, Hirad.’

‘You’re sounding like you drank something way too strong, old friend.’

‘You can’t see or sense what I can, Hirad. It’s wonderful.’

‘I’m sure it is. But the Garonin are getting restless; we can see our people dying in the sky, though that might be a trick. We can’t see how we can stop them taking us, then you, and ripping the heart out of wherever it is you’ve found . . . You have found something, haven’t you?’

‘Oh yes, you could say that. And I can’t hold the door closed any longer. My soul desires to feel a new dawn. All these souls need a berth just as yours does. Keep strong, Hirad. You’re the heart of The Raven, don’t forget that. Trust me. Help is coming.’

‘From where?’

‘From everywhere. That’s why it had to be me that died for this.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Just be ready. We’re going home, Hirad. Home.’

Sol closed his eyes again. Everything had become very clear. The only risk now was that the Garonin would overwhelm the defenders before he was ready. But if he trusted anyone, it was The Raven. Sol let his soul fly. The scents of life suffused him. A breath played over him, gentle caressing growing to a breeze. It was the passage of souls, flooding forward into their new lands, there to find their resting place, there to find the paths back to their loved ones. There to end the torment of those marooned on Balaia.

Yet not all the souls that flowed over Sol passed through. Again and again he felt the touch of familiarity amongst the mass. And each one responded to his call to arms. To turn from sanctuary and defend the resting place none had yet seen.

‘My brothers, the world is forever in your debt,’ said Sol.

‘We are one,’ they responded.

Sol, the bridge between worlds, the director of the souls of the dead and the seeker of the paths back to the living, opened his eyes once more and he smiled.

Rebraal smashed his sword into the unguarded flank of a Garonin soldier. The Al-Arynaar bludgeoned into the enemy force holding the valley mouth. TaiGethen attacked with renewed vigour.

‘Down in front,’ said Dila’heth.

Rebraal ducked, bringing his warriors with him. IceBlades whipped over their heads. From somewhere, she had found another casting. The slivers of ice as hard as diamond sliced into the helmets of the Garonin. Seventy and more held the valley mouth. Before them, the dead of the TaiGethen lay, the enemy’s corpses long since claimed back to whence they came.

It sickened Rebraal to look at the dead but they gave him more energy for the fight. He surged up and chased in after the IceBlades. Dila’heth’s spell had wreaked havoc in the Garonin line. They had been unable to adapt to the out-of-tune Julatsan casting. Blood poured from the split helms of dozens of soldiers. Those nearest the impact were down. Others were pierced but still standing, unsteady on their feet.

The Al-Arynaar ploughed on. White fire ripped through their ranks. Rebraal swayed outside a stream of tears, leapt high and brought his sword down onto the helmet of a Garonin soldier. The man’s head broke apart under the force of the blow. Rebraal landed, rolled and came upright, in the thick of them now. He stabbed left and right.

His warriors were with him, driving a wedge deep into the enemy line. A white-edged blade came at him. He parried and thrust out, knocking his man back. The Garonin came on again. A jaqrui tore into his neck. Blood spurted from the wound. Rebraal stepped up and finished him.

Elves poured down on the diminishing knot of the enemy. Behind, further up the valley, the vydosphere’s weapons were useless during the melee. And on the ground the TaiGethen and ClawBound defence kept the balance of the Garonin from joining the fight.

Rebraal punched straight out, feeling his fist crack against stomach armour. There was a flare of white. Rebraal ducked instinctively. Something had lashed out from the armour. He heard elves scream. Rebraal chopped down hard on the Garonin’s right arm, battering the weapon from his hand. He reversed his blade and slashed up into the helmet, denting it deeply and sending his opponent sprawling.

Rebraal glanced behind him. Dila’heth lay on the ground, blood pouring from a gash across her face. Mages were running to her aid. Rebraal turned back. Still the Garonin fought. A TaiGethen warrior fielded a blade on his short sword but a second came round and carved the top of his skull clean off. His Tai brothers spun, leapt and kicked, feet driving into chest and gut. The two Garonin went down. Rebraal turned from the kill.

‘Break their line,’ called a voice from behind him. ‘You’re close. You’re so close.’

Rebraal faced a new enemy. The soldier raised his weapon to fire. Rebraal turned sideways and grabbed at it, feeling the heat along its length as it discharged. He forced the weapon down. White tears rattled into the dirt. Rebraal bounced on the balls of his feet. He jabbed his left elbow into the soldier’s faceplate and his blade through the eye slit. The man fell soundlessly.

Al-Arynaar surged around him. A ClawBound panther from the rear defence leapt over elf and enemy. She flattened a Garonin soldier, her jaws closing on his neck as he struck the ground. Rebraal followed up, hacking through the thigh of the last man in front of him as he struggled to find his blade, unable to fire for fear of hitting his own.

Rebraal was clear. He tore down the path to the abandoned village. From ahead he could hear screaming and shouting and the detonation of weapons. Spells lit up the sky in desultory fashion, impacting both the ground and the vydospheres hovering over the bay.

He rounded the last bend, ran through the village and slithered to a stop, his heart thrashing in his chest.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Dear Yniss, preserve your people.’

The sea was aflame. He watched a Garonin heavy weapon fire from the carriage of a vydosphere. The ship beneath it disintegrated in a ball of flame. Timbers and planking were reduced to ashes in moments. Those aboard were incinerated in the blink of an eye.

Rebraal could not see beyond the fire and smoke to the open sea and the remainder of the fleet. He could not see the Calaian Sun and could only pray that Jevin had escaped to deep water and away to preserve the bound statue of Yniss. But he could see the staging point on the beach. Or what was left of it.

Smoke trailed over blackened sand. Remnants of marker flags blew across the shore. Three thousand he had left there. All gone, their souls cast into the void. Rebraal fell to his knees. The only thing left now was to pray.

Chapter 45

Densyr took them at a dead run on a circuitous route back towards the catacomb entrance. All around them the sounds of fighting echoed through the corridors, replacing the earlier bombardment. It was hard to hear. His guards and mages defended the Heart while he ran for his life, hoping they could delay the Garonin long enough for Dystran to complete his final task.

Diera was struggling under the weight of young Hirad. The lad wouldn’t touch the floor to run or walk now. Densyr brought them to the junction of two corridors and stopped before making a right turn.

‘Do you want me to take him?’ he asked.

‘You need your hands free to cast,’ said Diera, blowing hard. ‘Hirad darling, please, will you run if Jonas runs with you?’

‘I can’t, Mama. I’m frightened. Why aren’t the wolves here?’

‘They must be ahead somewhere, checking the way is clear for us. It’s going to be all right. You’ll see.’

Hirad clung to her neck. Diera raised her eyebrows at Densyr.

‘I’ll be all right. Just you look after Jonas. I don’t like seeing him with that sword in his hands.’

Densyr glanced down at the blade they’d taken from one of Dystran’s guards. It rested easily in Jonas’s grip. He had hefted it like a veteran but Densyr knew he had only ever fenced with Sol. Real combat was horribly different. For his part, Densyr had part-cast an Ilkar’s Defence. It was the best he could think of without risking his charges.

‘Are you ready? We go right here, all the way down to the end of the corridor, then it’s left, up a short incline, straight across the hub and up the stairs to the way out. It gets hard from here. Do what I say and we’ll make it.’

‘Ready,’ said Jonas.

Diera nodded again and put her hands under Hirad’s backside to lift him onto her chest.

‘Put him on your back, Mother,’ said Jonas. ‘He’ll be better protected that way.’

‘Hirad?’ asked Diera.

The boy shrugged and climbed up on Diera’s back. She put her arms under his thighs.

‘Thank you, Jonas.’

‘Let’s go,’ said Densyr. ‘Jonas up front with me. We’ll shield your mother.’

Jonas kept pace with him. They hurried down the corridor, a long, narrow space that inclined very slightly along its length. As they approached the end, Densyr heard a sound from ahead and brought them to a sliding stop. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

‘Be ready,’ he said.

Jonas clutched his sword in both hands. The point tapped on the ground. Densyr could not suppress a smile.

‘Sol used to wait until we could see them at least,’ he said.

‘It helps the nerves,’ said Jonas.

‘For us too.’

Round the corner came a figure, carrying another in his arms. Densyr sagged with relief and ran towards them.

‘Suarav. Dear Gods above, man, how are you still alive?’

Suarav’s face crumpled. Tears streaked down the dirt encasing his face. His shoulders shook. The head of the man in his arms fell outwards. Brynar. Behind him, Diera gasped.

‘Hide your head, Hirad. Do it now.’

The whole of Brynar’s left leg beneath the knee was gone. Ripped away by some huge force. Blood still dripped from the stump.

‘Help him,’ managed Suarav. ‘He fought so well.’

‘Put him down,’ said Densyr. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do for him now.’

Suarav shook his head. ‘Don’t say that. So many of them out there. We held them. He deserves to live. He—’

Suarav’s body juddered and blew sideways, slamming into the opposite wall of the corridor. White tears thudded into his body, ripping him and the dead Brynar into smoking pieces. Diera screamed. Densyr swore. More footsteps. Powerful and rhythmic. Two men at least, possibly three.

‘I’m ready to cast. Jonas . . . Jonas, no!’

‘Jonas!’ shrieked Diera.

The boy had heard neither of them. He had run to the end of the corridor and was waiting just away from the turning, sword cocked back. Densyr could see his body heaving and the tremble in his legs. Densyr began moving towards him, his spell itching to be cast. It shouldn’t feel like that.

A Garonin soldier appeared at the corridor entrance, stooping to squeeze his frame into the confined space. Jonas hesitated, looking up at the eight-foot-tall figure hunched under the low ceiling. But not for long. With a cry, he swung his sword round and up. The blade sheared through armour at the waist. The Garonin howled in agony and fell back.

Densyr made the end of the corridor and cast his Defence spell down it. Two more Garonin stood there. White tears played over the blue-washed barrier. Densyr could feel every impact through his arms. He clung on to the casting, finding it hard to concentrate.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked himself.

By him, Jonas was staring at the blood on his sword. He was shivering.

‘I killed someone,’ he said, his voice tiny.

‘And though I shouldn’t say it, your father would have been proud of you. Just check your moves with me first next time, eh?’

The answer to Densyr’s first question became obvious. The walls all around them and throughout the catacombs glowed deep blue and trembled. Densyr pushed hard at his casting, forcing the Garonin back along the corridor.

‘Time to leave. And quickly.’

There was beauty in the way it all folded back, thought Dystran. A certain symmetry of which Septern himself would have been proud. The lines of the ward grid had gathered together when he had let go the entry point between Heart and casting. The place where he should have set his mind to keep the opposing forces at bay was now empty. There was more he could do, however, and do it he did.

Dystran imagined himself humming as he did his work. His mother used to hum when she was cooking so it seemed the right thing to be doing. Dystran did not want to let the small chance that the energies within the grid would dissipate come to fruition. So he directed the mana flow back along the grid lines, using his failing mind to force them into the shape of a rope with individual fibres spiralling together.

And when that was thick enough, for his own amusement he gave the shape of this focused mana an arrowhead. Feedback. The most terrifying force any casting mage would ever face. But at this moment, Dystran’s last on this Earth, it was simply stupendous in its simplicity and its power.

The arrowhead slammed into the gentle pulsing hourglass of the Heart’s mana. There really could be only one outcome. He hoped Densyr escaped it. That would somehow be just.

For Dystran the world turned a fiery blue and then to utter dark.

Densyr gathered every ounce of strength in his mind and pushed. The Garonin were shoved straight into the hub room and flattened against the wall to one side of the stairway. Surely there were many hundreds more enemy up the stairs but that was a chance they’d have to take.

Densyr held the spell a few moments more.

‘Got to ask you to do something, Jonas,’ he said.

‘I know,’ said Jonas. ‘I’ll take left.’

‘Good lad. Don’t think about it. Only consider what they have forced your father to do. Don’t let them take any more of your family.’

Jonas nodded, a grim expression on his young face. The sight of it angered Densyr more than anything he had seen these past days. He gave the Ilkar’s Defence another shove, batting the heads of the Garonin against the wall one more time.

‘Dropping on three,’ he said. ‘One, two . . . three! Defence down.’

The two of them rushed the stunned Garonin. Densyr dragged a dagger from his boot sheath, reached up and rammed it into the neck of his target. Beside him, Jonas gave a wavering call and stabbed his man through the stomach. His blade ran straight through and screeched against the wall.

‘And now it’s time to run.’

Densyr ran for the stairs up to the ruined tower complex. He had not got two steps before he felt the air being sucked out of his lungs. A wind howled down the stairs, a mana gale that blasted through his mind. Behind him Sol’s family couldn’t feel it at all. He screamed and clamped his hands to the sides of his head, dropping to his knees and tumbling back.

He felt hands about him, trying to help him. All around them the blue in the walls had faded to a crisp white and frost bulged out, thick and grabbing. Ice fingers probed into millennia-old stone. The catacombs gave a death rattle. A complete silence fell.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Diera.

‘The Heart is about to stop beating,’ said Densyr.

There were footsteps on the stairs. Densyr swore. Hirad screeched and clutched hard at Diera’s neck. Four Garonin pounded into the hub room. Densyr wasn’t ready. He had no spell prepared. His head was thumping as loud as the enemy boots. Jonas rushed in, yelling at them to leave his mother alone. A Garonin arm came round. The back of the soldier’s hand clattered into Jonas’s chest, sending him sprawling.

Diera and Hirad both shrieked Jonas’s name. Garonin weapons trained on Densyr. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. From his left two shadows whipped by. He heard a Garonin shout. There was a howl and then the crunchy of fang on flesh and bone. A weapon was fired, dust and stone fell from the ceiling. Densyr dared to look.

Both wolves had attacked from a side passageway. Two Garonin were down. The other two trying to beat the wolves back. Jonas stormed past him and hacked his sword into an exposed back. Densyr, impelled to action, freed his dagger again. He paced forward. The one free Garonin reared back, a wolf snarling and snapping in his arms. The soldier roared with the effort.

Densyr jammed his dagger blade hard into the back of the Garonin’s left thigh and kicked into the back of his knee. The Garonin pitched forward. The wolf spun in his grip. Claws and fangs lashed in. Before long, the enemy had ceased his struggle. Blood slicked across the hub room floor.

Densyr, breathing heavily, nodded his thanks at Jonas. He wiped his dagger on his trousers and sheathed it. A bass rumble rippled out from the centre of the catacombs. The hub room shook. Areas of the plaster ceiling fell in. The walls heaved. Fissures appeared within, shattering ice. The wind began to howl again but this time all could hear it.

‘Run!’ yelled Densyr.

He sprinted back to the stairs, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. Jonas was by his side, bloodied sword still held in one hand. They ran out into the devastation that had once been the tower complex. Nothing was left now but treacherous ruins. Ruins filled with Garonin. A hundred eyes turned on them as they fled the top of the stairs and were forced to stop by the piles of stone blocking their path. Fifty weapons were brought to bear. The wolves placed themselves in front of Hirad and Jonas, barking out warnings. Lips curled back from teeth and hackles rose.

‘To me,’ shouted Densyr. ‘Huddle close.’

There was a growing whine in the air, replacing the silence. Densyr cast quickly and efficiently, trying not to think about the fact that it would be his last casting as a true mage of Xetesk. He had a choice to make. To deflect the Garonin weapons was one option. He chose a second. Densyr stared at the nearest Garonin as the soldier’s hand rested on the trigger of his weapon.

‘I’d duck if I were you,’ he said.

The Heart of Xetesk exploded. The speed of the shock wave was incredible. The ground rippled underfoot, upsetting every Garonin, pitching them from their feet. It was followed by a series of detonations from deep within the catacombs. Densyr’s Orsyn’s Cocoon covered the four of them above and below, a seamless bubble of mana that he would cling on to for as long as his mind would let him.

From the centre of the catacombs the ground heaved in expanding concentric circles. Cracks were torn and blue fire lashed out, sending shards of stonework out in lethal clouds. Garonin, struggling to their feet, were cut to shreds in their tens and dozens. The ripple detonations thundered beneath Densyr and his charges. They were cast up eight or ten feet and dumped back down.

The ground collapsed beneath them and they fell further. All around them Garonin soldiers died. The air was full of whistling missiles. Great slabs of catacomb wall spiralled high, crashing down on the undefended. Bodies were smeared beneath falls of rock that would have crushed dragons. The ripples fled ever outwards, blue light gleaming under the surface. The wolves leapt out and bolted, howling as they went.

Densyr could just see the remaining college walls to the north judder and fall. Below, in the catacombs, nought would be left but dust. Stones and debris rattled on the skin of the cocoon. Densyr could feel his link to the Heart fade and die. An intense sadness swept into his body and the shield was gone. There was still mana here. He could feel it, taste it. But the flow he knew, the security that had always been there . . . nothing was left. Not a trickle. Mage rendered man.

‘I wonder if this really was always inevitable,’ he said.

‘Probably,’ said Diera.

She hugged Hirad close to her. The little boy was cut and crying but otherwise unharmed. Physically at least. Jonas coughed and sat up, using his sword as a prop to help him stand.

‘Is it over?’ he asked.

‘Well, that depends whether the Garonin find us of no more use or whether they feel annihilation is fitting revenge. Either way, we should probably get out of this hole. I dread to think what it’s like below us. As treacherous as shifting sands, I should think.’

‘Densyr,’ said Diera, feeling able to use his new name at last

‘Denser, I think,’ said Denser. ‘That little ego trip didn’t last, did it?’

‘Denser, then. Sol would have been proud of you. Thank you.’

‘Don’t thank me. Not yet,’ said Denser. ‘Not until he comes for you. Come on. We need to find somewhere safer to hide.’

The doorway was open. The light that encased Sol was blinding. All any of them had to do was turn and walk towards it and they would be gone. And the Garonin would be right behind them. The pull, the temptation, was enormous. But to give in would be a betrayal of everything for which Sol had sacrificed his life.

And so Ilkar turned back, the howls of the Garonin loud in his ears, and watched them charge across the open space. There had to be two thousand of them in ranks forty yards wide. They would reach The Raven and TaiGethen in moments. They would roll over them as if they were wheat in a field and they would plunder a new set of dimensions.