Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 25 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Pressing herself against the lee of the chimneys, she dropped the CloakedWalk and began to prepare the mana shape for ShadowWings. Almost at once, a shout went up. She opened her eyes. She had been seen from the boundary, and men were running and pointing. She gathered her concentration and re-formed the mana shape. In seconds, it was done.

‘Deploy,’ she said. At her back, wings formed, shifting in the daylight and barely visible to the naked eye. She took a pace forwards and lifted off, moving quickly out and upwards towards the Wastes. Below her, commands were barked and projectiles whistled into the air. Nothing came close. She smiled. Not the way she wanted to get out, but good enough. She could almost smell the fire in Styliann’s tower.

Something slammed into her back, driving the wind from her and sending her tumbling downwards. She barely kept hold of the wings as she fought to right herself and regain lost height, but she felt weighted with lead. She glanced over her shoulder. A thin beam of white light connected her body to a Shaman. Below her, Wesmen were jeering and shouting, faces upturned, teeth bared.

She drove the wings harder, inching away, but a second blow, this time at the base of her neck, sent her crashing side first into a building. She hit the ground, dazed, the ShadowWings gone.

‘Damn.’ She shook her head, hearing delighted whoops and running feet. She struggled to rise, pushing her back up the wall, head throbbing but vision clearing. From the left and right they came, it seemed like hundreds of them. She drew the sword from her back-mounted scabbard and stood ready. One of them laughed, unhitching an axe. On a signal, the others dropped back a pace to give him room to fight alone.

He was a large man, heavy-set, with an untidy black beard and close eyes. He ran in, swinging his axe through chest high. Selyn simply ducked the blow and came up fast, taking him clean through the stomach. He grunted and fell sideways and backwards, clutching at his wound, blood pouring through his fingers.

A moment’s shocked quiet was shattered by a roar as the mass ran forward. She snatched a dagger from her boot. They were on her quickly, a mêlée of furs, steel and fists.

The first Wesmen died with the dagger through his heart. Another took a cut to his thigh, but then they had her hands. The sword was knocked from her grasp as she struggled to free herself. She was pushed back against the wall; swords and daggers were drawn. One of them dragged the hood from her head and face.

Another pause in surprise at what they had uncovered. The sounds of approval chilled her to the bone, but when the grips on her arms loosened instinctively, she reacted on the instant, turning her wrists and releasing the bolts. One man was taken under the chin, the other bolt glanced off a head and away. Both men fell back, but there were so many others.

They dragged her to the ground, yells of animal pleasure filling the air as the clothes were cut and torn from her body. Hands pawed her, scratched and clawed her, blood oozed from a dozen cuts. She squirmed and fought, keeping a determined silence as they pinned her down, spread-eagled naked and terrified.

A single voice shouted a command and the mob quietened and parted, admitting a Shaman. He was middle-aged, clad in heavy cloth and with his greying hair tied in a ponytail at his neck. Selyn’s terror stilled, replaced by the calm of certainty, and she gathered herself to stare him square in the eye.

‘Well, well, well, my pretty,’ said the Shaman, loosening his belt and kneeling between her legs. ‘Perhaps death won’t come quickly enough for you.’

The rape was brutal. He thrust hard inside her, his hands gouging at her sides and breasts. She winced as he pushed up, a cheer rising from the watching crowd. She closed her mind to the humiliation and the pain and picked her head up to catch his gaze a second time.

‘They will have to cut me in half to release you,’ she said. She bit down hard on her back tooth and convulsed. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ she whispered. The nerve toxin from the broken tooth cap acted instantly, every muscle in her body contracting with extraordinary violence. The last sounds she heard as the mana pulse fled eastwards were the screams of the Shaman.

Chapter 26

Styliann’s cry of pain and fury could be heard clear across Triverne Lake. Selyn’s dying mana pulse struck him like a stake through the eye. It took six men to restrain him and two spells to sedate him, and even as he slept, the tears rolled down his face and the fire burned in his cheeks. When he awoke, the light had gone from his eyes and he strode to the Marquee, time suddenly precious.

The chairs were back, arranged in a shallow crescent on one side of the trestle, which was now clothed, candled and decked with food and wine. Styliann took his place next to Barras in the centre chairs. Vuldaroq to Barras’s left, Heryst next to Styliann. And on the other side of the trestle, The Raven. On a bench drawn up to the table sat Denser, Ilkar and Hirad, with The Unknown standing in close attendance of the Dark Mage. Behind them, sitting on cushions and chairs, and invited principally as observers, were Will, Thraun, Jandyr and Erienne.

There was no set agenda. A day ago, this meeting would have been unthinkable. But it was a measure of the deterioration of the situation to the east of the Blackthorne Mountains and Understone Pass that The Raven had agreed to submit to a discussion about their next move.

Hirad sat forward, leaning on his elbows, hands supporting his chin. Denser had adopted a more relaxed posture, while Ilkar sat stiffly upright, in awe of the seniority of the mages opposite him.

Styliann, his eyes dark, his hands constantly wringing, spoke in a monotone as he informed them of the decision to help them through Understone Pass, though he wouldn’t be drawn in their company as to the magic that would be employed to retake the pass. Denser looked closely at him, tried to probe the periphery of his emotions with his mind. The Lord of the Mount sensed him, shot him a glance full of anguish.

‘They have taken Selyn from me,’ he said. ‘They will suffer.’

‘I am sorry, my Lord.’

Styliann nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now, tell me of your plans when you reach the other side of the pass.’

‘No,’ said Hirad.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Vuldaroq spluttered. All the delegates had tensed.

‘Some tact, please, Hirad.’ Ilkar sounded suddenly strained. ‘What he is trying to say is that—’

‘We aren’t telling you anything because for one, you don’t need to know and that makes us all safer, and for another, we don’t know ourselves until we get close enough to see what we’re up against. Once we get through the pass, we’ll head for the Wrethsires, as you know. After that, we’ll be on our way to the Torn Wastes.’ Hirad poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘What can I say? We’ll be in touch.’

There was silence around the table. The delegation’s was down to sheer disbelief, The Raven’s due to trepidation. Only Hirad seemed unaffected.

‘What?’ He spread his hands and looked at his friends. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem, Hirad Coldheart,’ spat Styliann, ‘is that you have no conception of what you are dealing with. You blithely speak of taking the most powerful spell ever created into the heart of Balaia’s most potent enemy as though it were a stroll through the woods. We can’t afford for this to fail.’ His final words were accompanied by raps on the table.

‘Well, it strikes me you’ve been doing your level best to screw it up ever since you recruited us.’ Hirad leaned right into Styliann, half rising from his seat. ‘We know how to deal with this and we’ll succeed if you leave us alone. It’s been your interference that has caused us most of our trouble.’ He sat back down, but pointed a finger at Styliann’s eyes. ‘And never, ever tell me I don’t understand what is going on. The fact that I am still sitting by Denser while so many of my friends are either dead or in hiding should tell you I understand only too well how important this is.’

‘Calm down, Hirad,’ said Ilkar. ‘This isn’t helping.’

‘I don’t care. Look, it’s quite simple. You let us do things our way and we’ll succeed. Interfere and we’ll more than likely fail.’

Styliann looked at Hirad with a mixture of rage and respect. His cheeks were slightly coloured and he refused to take in the expressions of the others in the delegation. ‘I am unused to having my authority challenged in this way,’ he said quietly.

‘I’m not challenging your authority,’ said Hirad. ‘I’m just telling you how to give yourself the best chance.’

‘I think it is about time we moved on,’ said Heryst. ‘I am sure we all agree that The Raven can best deal with the Wrethsires on their own. But I do think it would be wise if we – that is, the four-College delegation – held the two catalysts found so far until the third is recovered.’

‘I’m sure you do.’

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘Because you must think I’m an idiot, and that’s what idiots do all the time.’

‘Hirad,’ said Ilkar, ‘tell me you haven’t done what I think you’ve done.

Denser clapped Hirad on the back and started laughing, though he surely could scarcely feel like doing so. ‘Oh, very well done, Hirad, very well done,’ he said.

The delegation looked on, Styliann at Denser, Barras at Ilkar.

‘Explain,’ said Vuldaroq, his face reddening by the second. ‘I hate to feel I am being laughed at.’

‘Let me assure you I am laughing at nothing but Hirad’s capacity to surprise. Tell us all where the catalysts are, Hirad, please.’

Hirad shrugged. ‘Somewhere between here and the farm we stayed at. I don’t think I’ll be any more specific. And before you bluster and shout, let me explain that I am sick and tired of people trying to run my life and so I have given The Raven a little bargaining counter against further betrayal.’

‘But surely you know that was a rogue Master from Xetesk!’ Vuldaroq thumped the palms of his hands on his chair. ‘And now the most valuable pieces in Balaia are unguarded.’

‘And untraceable,’ said Hirad. ‘And I don’t care who it was that was coming to kill us. The fact is that there are only three mages in the entire world that I trust and they are all sitting with The Raven.

Now we need to get through the pass without wasting any more time. If your intelligence is right, the Wesmen will be at our borders in four days or less and I don’t want to meet them in the middle of the Blackthorne Mountains.’

Hirad took in everyone. Denser was smiling, The Unknown was gazing studiously at the back of Denser’s neck, Ilkar was staring at him with jaw slack and eyes wide, and the delegation sat in mute fury. All except one. Heryst. He was nodding and was the first to rise.

‘Congratulations, Hirad Coldheart. You have out-thought us all.

For now. It’s a shame you mistrust us, because we really are on your side, and the side of Balaia,’ he said. ‘I only hope for your sake that your mind is as alert in the days to come. The game for our land is about to be played out and Dawnthief is the only card we have. It would be criminal to lose it.’ He led the delegation from the Marquee.

‘Are you absolutely out of your mind?’ Ilkar waited until only The Raven remained in the Marquee.

‘We got the result we wanted,’ said Hirad. ‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Ilkar spluttered. ‘Have you any idea how powerful Styliann is? All the delegation for that matter. Yet you have to go rubbing him up the wrong way, and as if that wasn’t enough, you’ve planted Dawnthief in a bloody field somewhere. What, are you thinking it’ll grow and bear fruit or something?’

Hirad smiled again. He glanced at Denser, who had returned to his shell and was staring into nowhere.

‘Ease up, Ilkar. Listen—’ He broke off. ‘Will they be listening?’ He jerked a thumb.

‘I’d expect nothing less,’ said Ilkar. Hirad raised his eyebrows. Ilkar sighed, spoke a few words and made an enveloping motion with his arms. The sounds from outside the Marquee faded to nothing. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Where exactly between here and the farmhouse have you put the catalysts?’

Hirad held his right thumb and forefinger and inch apart. ‘About this far.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Ilkar blinked slowly.

Hirad pulled a chain from under his shirt. From it hung the Understone Pass Commander’s Badge and the Dordovan Ring of Authority.

‘Grow and bear fruit! What do you take me for?’

A transformation had taken place in Understone since the arrival of Darrick. Drainage had been restored and the main street was merely sole deep in mud, aided in its drying by a stiff wind and a hold-off of rain. Around the town itself, a city of tents and corralling had sprung, housing the four-College cavalry, its horses and, latterly, the five thousand foot soldiers who were the advance force detailed to defend the eastern end of Understone Pass from Wesmen incursion.

Defensive positions had been raised out of bowshot of the mouth of the pass, from where there was nothing but silence. The mages he had sent in under CloakedWalks had not returned. The quiet was disconcerting. It was as if they were waiting for something more than just reinforcement before attacking. It made Darrick uneasy, and when Darrick was uneasy, there was usually magic in the air.

The Raven arrived in the company of thirty Xeteskian mages two days after leaving Triverne Lake. Darrick was waiting for them, and in the evening before the attempt was to be made to take the pass, he heard the details of Xetesk’s new offensive spell. He and Hirad sparred in the main street later as he tried to shake off the images the mages drew. He had taken an instant like to the Raven man and was envious of his role and the sheer determination he saw in his eyes.

The next morning would see the Wesmen a little over a day from the pass. He found himself irritated that they couldn’t wait for the maximum number to be inside when the spell was cast. And it wasn’t just to do with the fact that The Raven had to gain quick passage to the other side either. It was to do with the correct alignment of dimensions. He hoped someone would be good enough to explain it to him sometime.

The wind blew from the south, along the Bay of Gyernath. The afternoon skies were clear but cloud was gathering, thick, dark and ominous. Rain was already falling far out in the southern ocean, dark grey reaching from sea to sky. It would hit land by nightfall.

The Barons Blackthorne and Gresse stood on the eastern shore of the bay where the shingle gave way to sand and sloped steeply into the lapping waters of low tide. To their right, the Blackthorne Mountains towered sheer from the water, beginning their six-hundred-mile journey to the Triverne Inlet and Balaia’s northern coast. At their backs, and perhaps two hours’ ride north-east, was the walled town of Blackthorne and its castle.

The seat of Balaia’s most powerful Baron was the principal hurdle in the way of any Wesmen move to Understone to the north and, to a lesser extent, Gyernath to the south-east. Its seven thousand inhabitants were principally from mining or farming backgrounds, giving Blackthorne considerable muscle in addition to his standing militia.

With Gresse’s four hundred men and mercenaries, the defence of southern Balaia numbered around one thousand regular and two thousand reserve soldiers, and they would need every one. Word from Understone suggested that as many as six thousand Wesmen would attempt the bay crossing. The battle would be hard and bloody.

Gresse and Blackthorne stood flanked by mages and aides, the former providing EagleSight-augmented information to add to what could be made out in miniature on the other side of the bay. The sand was black with boats and Wesmen.

‘There are more than six thousand there, surely,’ said Gresse.

One of the mages turned to him. ‘It’s impossible to say. They are stretched over three miles but that’s a function of the number of boats they have assembled. More are arriving from the south-west all the time.’

Gresse squinted and peered across the bay. The shore seemed to be crawling, shifting, moving. Individuals were impossible to make out, but the mass was there for all to see. Beside him, Blackthorne cleared his throat.

In his mid-forties, Baron Blackthorne was tall and slim with an angular face, heavy brows, black hair and beard. He rarely smiled, suffered no fools and carried his worries in his walk, which was head down, shoulders hunched and very fast. Like Gresse, over his breeches, shirt and leather tunic, he wore a heavy cloak, at which the wind picked.

‘Is equipment being loaded?’ he asked, the weariness in his tone suggesting this wasn’t a problem with which he should really be concerned.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ replied his senior mage.

‘Then we can expect them to put to sea quite soon. Under cover of darkness, one suspects.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Hmm.’ He licked his lips and smoothed the beard along his jawline. ‘I want as many of those boats sunk as is humanly possible without overstretching our resources. HotRain, FlameOrbs, Bow-Wave, IceWind, whatever. Take half of our mages and keep one hundred guards. I need wards in the sand, I need the first boats to land set aflame and turned around to obstruct the beach.

‘Do not be overrun. Retreat to the castle as soon as the Wesmen come ashore in large numbers. They won’t have horses, so you should be able to outrun them. Is that all clear?’ The man nodded. ‘Then Gresse and I will return to town. We will form our principal defence there. Baron Gresse?’

He turned on his heel and walked back up the gentle grassy slope to his horse, his footman coming to attention and handing him the reins. Behind him, the mage was already issuing orders. Gresse smiled as he walked beside the younger man, hurrying to keep up. The Wesmen would not reach Gyernath or Understone easily.

‘And what of the rest of the KTA now?’ asked Blackthorne as they rode together towards the castle, bodyguards behind them.

‘Too busy squabbling over my lands to help us or too pig-headed to believe the threat is real. Distrust of the Colleges is habitual,’ said Gresse.

‘And historically wise.’ Blackthorne turned to him. ‘What have you done with your people?’

‘At Taranspike?’

Blackthorne nodded.

‘They’re still at the castle but under instruction not to resist any attack. I’ve told them it isn’t worth it. My sons are there to see them safe, they have my seal of authority and they can stay in Korina at my expense if necessary. He won’t hurt them if they surrender.’

‘Pontois?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm.’ Blackthorne frowned. ‘I won’t forget this, Gresse.’

‘It is for Balaia, not just for you,’ Gresse reminded him.

‘But you are the only man with the balls to stand beside me,’ said Blackthorne. ‘It will give me great pleasure to reciprocate when you reclaim Taranspike. It was scum of the calibre of Pontois who killed the KTA and left us with no real defence against what we now face. His greed has shut his mind and he will be called to account. I, personally, will see to it.’ He paused, his face softening, much to Gresse’s surprise. ‘Assuming we survive the coming storm, that is. But for you and me, my friend, it is time to put our feet up in front of a large fire, take the best wine my cellars have to offer and await the sound of the horns.’

The Barons spurred their horses towards Blackthorne Town.

Chapter 27

Understone’s fateful morning broke dry, but heavy cloud was blowing over the Blackthorne Mountains towards them. At first light, Darrick’s cavalry mounted up and began the move to the pass. In front of the slowly advancing column walked thirty Xeteskian mages, young and old, all wearing the insignia of the Lord of the Mount on red tunic and shoulder – a tower atop a crown, edged in gold, embroidered on black.

The sound of voices had stopped as the cavalry formed up behind the mages, The Raven at its rear. All that could be heard were the sounds of hoofbeats, the nervous whinnies of horses and the flap of five hundred cloaks in the breeze.

Darrick sat tall in his saddle, proud and determined. To be appointed the first general of a four-College force for over three hundred years was an honour he could never have conceived even two months before.

But now, in front of him, thirty Xeteskians awaited his command, and behind him, five hundred horse would charge into the pass at the drop of his sword. The cavalry were split on College lines, each centile having its own defensive mages to cast hard and spell shields and provide the light to see them through the pass. The livery was mixed: green for Lystern, shades of deep blue for Dordover and Xetesk and yellow for Julatsa. Not ordered enough for the trained military mind but imposing for all that.

At the rear of the column lounged The Raven and their horses. Hirad, Ilkar, Erienne and The Unknown stood in loose formation around a still pale but more talkative Denser. Jandyr, Thraun and Will, whose grey hair now covered much of his head, spoke amongst themselves. Hirad allowed a half-smile across his face, seeing parallels with the early days of Richmond, Ras and Talan. They would take more part, of that he was sure, so long as they lived. And of that, he wasn’t.

‘What are they going to do, exactly?’ asked Hirad. ‘I mean, whatever it is, it’s going to be impressive, right? There’s thirty of them after all.’

Denser shrugged. ‘It’ll be something to watch.’

‘Oh come on, Denser, you can do better than that,’ said Ilkar. ‘They’ve been researching for twenty years, you must know something. ’

‘Ah, Ilkar,’ said Denser, moving closer to Erienne, ‘there you go assuming our research teams are as forthcoming as yours. Don’t forget, in Xetesk, new spell construction and mastery leads to Master status.’

‘But if you haven’t heard any rumours, you can take your arm from my waist.’ Erienne smiled. Denser’s arm stayed where it was.

‘I just don’t want to spoil your surprise, and if I’ve heard right, it’s going to be something like you’ve never seen.’

‘Elucidate,’ said The Unknown, who still said little and never strayed far from Denser’s side.

Denser pushed out his bottom lip. ‘Right. Well, all I’ll say is that it’s dimensional, it’s incredibly difficult to control and, if my hunch is right, it’ll be wet.’

‘Wet,’ said Hirad.

There was a contemplative quiet.

‘Wet,’ said Hirad again.

Denser smiled. ‘Just watch.’

Darrick gave the instruction to cast. Twenty-one mages stepped forwards, forming three sides of a square. The lead mage gave the command to mana-form and at once, all their heads dropped but their hands reached out as if gripping something too heavy to hold. Closed-eyed, they leaned back against the invisible grip. There was a moment’s calm. Denser grunted as the mana shape developed.

‘This is powerful,’ he said.

The mages started walking towards the pass. There was no movement from within.

‘HardShield up.’ A trio of Julatsan mages raised their defence around the vulnerable Xeteskians.

Twenty yards from the black maw of the pass, the arrows began to fly, bouncing harmlessly from the core-strength Julatsan hard shield. The mages stopped walking, still concentrating, still developing the mana shape.

Denser, who had attuned his eyes to the mana spectrum, marvelled at the shape of the spell. It mapped a pattern at once random but with a perverse sense of rhythm and symmetry. And it was huge, covering a space in the air which totally obscured the pass, the path in front of the casting mages and the hills rising either side.

‘I have never . . .’ he breathed.

‘It’s incredible,’ agreed Ilkar.

‘Unstable,’ said Erienne. ‘I only hope they can hold it.’

‘What does it look like?’ asked Will.

It was a deep, pulsating blue, edges shifting and changing, mimicking the outline of the Blackthorne mountain peaks high above, then swarming to depict oceanic power. It was shot through with streaks of orange, which flowed ceaselessly through the whole, joining, spiralling, splitting. To a mage, it was beauty incarnate; to everyone else, an inconceivable mystery.

A rank of archers moved up quickly as the first Wesman appeared at the pass entrance, sword in hand. He disappeared just as quickly. Bows strung, arrows nocked, the archers waited for the inevitable charge.

Perhaps twenty Wesmen ran from the darkness, heavy furs bouncing on their bodies, braided hair flowing backwards, their shouts echoing along the path and their eyes wild beneath steep brows.

The archers fired. The shouting stopped. The survivors turned and fled.

‘Deploy,’ said the lead Xeteskian immediately afterwards.

It began with a horizontal line of red light suspended above, and ten yards in front of, the entrance to the pass. A heartbeat later, it was joined by three more, forming a perfect square some fifty feet each side, hanging in the air. The lines fizzed and crackled but held rock steady. Behind the square, the mages swayed backwards, arms outstretched, hands gripping mid-air. The angle was crazy; they should all have fallen but the mana shape held them.

‘Connect and open,’ ordered the lead mage. There was a buzzing in the air and the lines of the square revolved through a dazzling spectrum of colour. Two mages were hurled from the square to lie motionless in the dirt and mud, smoke rising from clothes, skin and hair. Next, a moment’s silence so deep it hurt the ears. And finally, the awesome sound of water obliterated the peace.

And a beat after the sound came the sight. With the power of the deep, froth flying, came a force of water the size of the square. It howled out of dimensional space, striking the ground well inside the pass. Out and out it came, ocean from a clouded sky, screaming into the darkness and surely dashing to fragments everything in its path.

Behind, the mages fought to maintain the square as it bucked and twisted in the air, buckling and strengthening as the deluge hammered out into Balaian space. The water lashed against rock, tore vegetation from its roots and smashed the very earth from its bed of ages, spray flying backwards, streams running in every direction from the mouth of the pass. Echoing from the walls of rock inside, a pounding sound rose to join that of the rush from the mouth in the sky. The tumbling of loose stone, the crack of timbers snapped like twigs, and faint, so faint it may have been a trick on the ears, the screams of men could all be heard. The power was extraordinary.

Ilkar swore softly. ‘They’ve tapped an ocean,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ve tapped a bloody ocean.’ Had he shouted, no one would have heard him as the roar battered at the ears and the sight simply blotted out the capacity for anything else.

The mages held it for what seemed an age, the exertion visible, the effort tangible. The gate was kept open for over two minutes until, as suddenly as it had begun, the stream was shut off.

Another silence that tore at the ears was followed by the rising hubbub of excited voices. The exhausted mages didn’t even have the energy to congratulate each other before collapsing to the floor, every mote of mana stamina gone.

Applause rippled the air but was silenced by a shout from Darrick.

‘Clear the path!’

There was a ripple through the cavalry line as reins were drawn tighter. The metallic sounds of bits and bridles tautening added to the stamp of hoofs and the running of feet as Julatsan and Xetestaan mages came to the aid of their exhausted colleagues, hurrying them off the path and up a gentle slope. The bodies of the two for whom the spell had simply been too much were carried away.

Darrick raised his sword. The Raven mounted up. Five hundred blades swept from scabbards, ringing the air.

‘Shield and light!’ The teams of mages cast quickly and without error, and ‘shield-up’ confirmations travelled the column, followed by two dozen LightGlobes.

‘Advance!’

Darrick dropped his sword, kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. Hoofs threw up mud, thrumming on the poor surface of the trail. The shouts of the centile commanders mixed with the clamour of horse, metal and hoof, and the cavalry column moved on, gathering pace.

And, with water still pouring from cracks in the rock above the entrance, the cavalry charged into Understone Pass.

As it happened, Gresse and Blackthorne chose to watch the start of the Second Wesmen War from a low hill three hundred yards from the beach where the landings would take place.

The horns had been sounded and beacon fires lit as dawn broke to reveal the Wesmen already in the bay, attempting to steal a march under cover of darkness. It was a move anticipated by Blackthorne, and his beach force had been at readiness three hours before first light.

The stern Baron surveyed the dense fleet of craft, ranging from rowing boats taking only a dozen, to merchantmen with a capacity running into the hundreds. It was a strange and deeply disturbing sight, compounded by the silence broken only by orders to sail and row and the noise of oars and timbers through calm waters.

Rain had swept through the bay as night fell, backed by a vicious wind, no doubt hampering the Wesmen’s start, and Blackthorne considered them to be behind schedule. He was certain they had planned to land at first light, not still be over three hours distant.

In front of them, forty mages stood, thirty to cause mayhem among the boats, and ten to maintain shields over their colleagues and the centile of swordsmen charged with routing the first wave of boats to hit the shore. Finally, invisible and anchored to the sand, three dozen explosive wards, ready to be activated in retreat, each one capable of killing a dozen men.

Blackthorne announced himself satisfied.

‘This should give them something to think about.’

The boats drew closer, prows packed with Wesmen, silent, watching. Gresse didn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t this silence. The loudest noise in his ears was the flapping of his own cloak in the breeze.

‘There must be four hundred boats out there.’

‘Not for long,’ said Blackthorne. ‘Not for long.’

Sails trimmed, oars stroking through the water, the Wesmen fleet approached the shores of eastern Balaia. The calm was eerie but a storm was about to be unleashed over the flat waters of the Bay of Gyernath.