Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

With the fleet four hundred yards from land, the offence mages split into three spell groups with overlapping defensive support, and moved out on to the sand dunes overlooking the shore.

At the same time, the centile of swordsmen, most carrying torches, moved up and gathered around the beacon fires. Shouts of warning echoed around the bay, bouncing off the sheer walls of the mountains. Oars dug more deeply, sails were pared tighter, the fleet increased its speed.

The senior mage spoke. ‘You have your targets. Don’t wait around if you lose your spell. Don’t wait around when you have completed casting. I need you all back in the castle, fit, well and rested in twelve hours. Cast at will.’

Gresse could hear the hum of voices on the breeze as the mages built mana shapes and linked spells. The process lasted little more than two minutes, and then the fire came down.

In an area covering three hundred yards each side, drops of fire coalesced from clear air and fell like lead among the boats. A thick, driving rain of fire, spatting in the water, smoking into wood, scorching canvas and setting hair and fur ablaze. While the drops flared harmlessly against the magical shields surrounding the larger vessels evidently carrying Shamen, there was instant panic among the smaller craft.

Hundreds of small fires leapt from every exposed plank. Sails smouldered and burned, hands and skulls lit up, fear spread and discipline disappeared. In the midst of the throng, one Captain made an emergency tack to take the direct route out of the HotRain, ploughing across a smaller rowing boat. Rudders went left and right as tillermen ducked and dodged the hail of fire, sending craft in all directions, spilling warriors from port, starboard, prow and stern. The sea boiled, alive with floundering survivors, the wash of oars plunged frantically into water and the myriad fires that snuffed out as they hit, leaving spirals of smoke in their wake.

Over it all, the howls of pain, the screams of the dying, the crackling of fire and the splintering of wood. And through the carnage came the back of the fleet, unable to change course or slow sufficiently, such was the press of boats all around. On and on they came, into the HotRain, scything over abandoned burning craft and running down Wesmen in the water by the score.

The HotRain shut off as quickly as it had started, but relief was momentary. A thick pall of smoke covered a wide area of the bay and fleet, and emerging from it, and undamaged, came many of the larger ships, their occupants roaring with rage and lust for blood.

Now, FlameOrbs lit the sky. Combining the mana of three or more mages at a time and creating great depth and intensity, dozens of yellow and orange orbs, each the size of a man, arced across the sky to fall like rock weights on the spell-defended ships. Some bounced, others did not, and Gresse saw one crack a shield and splatter on the deck, reducing the three-hundred-man transport to a burning shell in an instant.

Gresse turned away. Through all his years of combat, combining magic with muscle, he had never seen carnage on such a scale. The calls of the dying, drowning and ablaze would haunt his every living day. Yes, he’d seen shields crack and magic engulf its victims before. But he had never seen an enemy so unprepared for the quantity or quality of magic thrown at it. And here were only forty mages. At the castle, there were double that number.

Blackthorne watched the events with dispassionate satisfaction.

‘Don’t forget they have come to kill us, take our lands and drive our memory from Balaia for ever,’ he said. ‘If their Shamen are not strong enough, it is not for us to weep.’

‘Why did you not simply devastate them on the water?’ asked Gresse.

‘I had no idea we would be this successful,’ admitted Blackthorne. He chewed his lip. ‘And I couldn’t leave my town undefended. What if they chase us all the way to Blackthorne now?’

Still the Wesmen came on, and still Blackthorne’s men weren’t finished. The sea was ablaze on a half-mile stretch but the undamaged and handicapped sailed through the human and wooden wreckage. Scores, hundreds of boats came on, the first beaching against the shingle only to be met by the swords and fire of Blackthorne’s warriors.

A dozen craft hit the beach, disgorging Wesmen into the surf and on to the sand. They came roaring into eastern Balaia, axes and blades flailing. Blackthorne’s men just cut them down, given huge advantage by the rise in the ground, ranks of archers on the dunes above the sea and the confidence of seeing their enemies in the water, burning and in disarray.

True to the Baron’s orders, the first boats were turned, burning, into the paths of the next. But hundreds more approached on a mile stretch. Spent, the mages ran for their horses and, with the Wesmen press of numbers threatening to overwhelm the small force of swordsmen, Blackthorne ordered full retreat.

With hardly a scratch, Blackthorne’s men had won the first skirmish of the war. And those Wesmen who did give chase died in a deluge of magical fire, the sand traps exploding, sending sheets of orange, yellow and blue flame lashing across the sand, igniting everything in their compass. Great gouts of sand shot into the air to sprinkle back down, a rainfall of grit on the dead and wounded.

The survivors, and there were many thousands, began to construct a beach-head. Turning in his saddle to watch, Blackthorne smiled.

‘No one takes my castle,’ he said to himself. ‘No one.’

Gresse caught his words though he had his doubts. A victory it was, but gazing over the shoreline as the smoke cleared and boat after boat reached the shore, he realised their estimate of numbers was way too low. And the Shamen would not be as unprepared another time.

The moment of truth would be at the walls of Blackthorne Castle.

Understone Pass was the result of a monstrous effort to widen a natural fissure that ran on a dog-leg through the Blackthorne Mountains. Ten times as many lives as years were lost in its creation at the behest of a group of Barons who were the forerunners of the Korina Trade Alliance. The result was a secure passage through Balaia’s almost impassable mountain range.

Through the carved gateway, the roof of the pass closed in sharply to a height just above that of a covered wagon and didn’t begin to open out for over three hundred yards. Always two wagons wide, the pass let out into incredible natural chambers and across chasms the bottom of which were littered with the bones of the unfortunate and the murdered. Elsewhere, the rock roof closed in, and always the sounds of rushing water stole quiet from any journey. A gallop through the pass would take something a little over four hours.

As he entered the pass, Darrick rode in awe of the devastation caused by the Xeteskian dimensional connection. LightGlobes chased the shadows away from the cavalry as they rode past the remnants of the Wesmen’s fortified posts. There was precious little left to evidence that a defence had been built along the first part of the pass.

Here and there, wood clung to clefts in the rock wall, tumbles of stone were washed against the sides of the pass and planks and ripped timbers had been speared into crevices by the force of the water. But of the Wesmen, there was no trace.

Darrick increased his pace as the pass opened out both above and on either side, only to slow as the true results of the spell became awesomely obvious. Here, Darrick knew, was the main focus of the Wesmen’s defence. Built into the walls were crossbow and catapult positions, archer galleries and oil runs. Deep into the rock, living quarters for anywhere between four and seven thousand men were dug, and the warren of rooms and passageways spread up either side of the pass for at least half a mile.

But the silence punctuated by running water told its own terrible story and of the accuracy of the Xeteskian calculations. The size of the dimensional rip had been larger than that of the first zone of the pass. The ocean, already travelling at incredible speed, had been forced through the smaller pass opening, gathering in pressure and velocity before exploding into the chamber occupied by so many completely unprepared Wesmen.

Nothing besides evacuation would have sufficed. The water would have blasted on and on, crashing through every passage, every room, every position, and simply scouring all signs of the Wesmen and the trappings of their lives from Understone Pass.

Water still ran from some of the upper positions and passages that Darrick could see, and as he moved further up the tight cavern, he could hear behind him the gasps of his men as they too took in their first sight of the sodden former defence of the Wesmen. It sparkled in the light of the Globes, pools of water casting dancing shadows over the walls and the roof as it rose gently into the darkness ahead.

‘They had nowhere to run,’ whispered Darrick, surprised at the tinge of sorrow he felt for the men who had had no chance of survival. No chance at all.

‘Shall we search the barracks, sir?’ asked one of his lieutenants.

Darrick shook his head. ‘I don’t think you want to see what might be left in there.’ He looked about him as he trotted forwards, scratching his head. ‘How far did the ocean travel?’

‘The Xeteskians estimate it would not drain away for perhaps a third the length of the pass, until we reach the first deeps,’ said an aide.

‘I wonder how far this sort of research should be allowed to go,’ said Darrick.

It was a sentiment being echoed by Ilkar as The Raven took their first sight of the obliteration of the Wesmen under the light of Erienne’s Globe. ‘We just don’t know enough about the effects on the relative dimensions of channelling resources from one to another, ’ he said.

‘It’s all a question of how often such a spell is used,’ replied Denser. ‘Today we have seen an amount of water that neither dimension will notice.’

‘But it has created an imbalance, however small, don’t deny that,’ said Ilkar.

‘Yes, but a grain of sand moved from one side of the scale to another will make no difference.’

‘Except that one day, one grain will tip the scale if the movement is all one way,’ countered Ilkar. ‘What then?’

‘The shame,’ said The Unknown, ‘is that such a spell is only considered for its offensive capabilities. Think what it could do opened under a freshwater lake and over a land with no rain.’

The debate trailed away to silence, and soon the clatter of hoofs and the sounds of the water far below were dominant once more.

There was twilight in the outside world before the four-College cavalry found the first and only pitiful resistance, right at the far end of the pass. It was clear that the word of the Xeteskian water spell had reached the western end and the fear of a repeat had caused complete panic. Everywhere, abandoned guardposts told their own story, and the Wesmen, with no natural magic of their own, had fled.

The cavalry had not seen its first body for more than an hour, just before the first deeps where surely so much death had, mercifully, been washed. Because what they did see was mangled remains jammed into clefts, whole bodies, single limbs, shattered skulls and blood puddling with the standing water. The power the Xeteskians had unleashed on the pass disgusted Darrick.

And now, six hours later, he was confronted by perhaps twenty Wesmen atop the stockade that blocked the cavalry’s path into Wesmen-held territory. All had bows or crossbows and their torch-fires burned bright and proud. Darrick halted the cavalry column well within range, but confident that the hard shields still in operation would hold firm.

One of the Wesmen stepped forward on to a parapet and shouted down at them.

‘Your spells will not hold us. Behind me are forces that will sweep you from Balaia, and the Lords of the Wastes will walk proud once more. Our magic will be too strong for you. Go back and prepare your graves.’

‘Move aside or die,’ said Darrick, simply, struggling a little at the scale of death that he had ordered so recently.

‘We are protected, you cannot harm us.’

Darrick smiled thinly and turned to the contingent of Xeteskian mages. ‘I don’t have time for chatter,’ he said, holding up three fingers. ‘HellFire?’ The mages nodded and began to cast. Darrick addressed himself to the Wesmen once more. ‘Pray to whatever Gods you worship,’ he said and turned his horse away.

‘HellFire,’ spoke the trio of Xeteskians.

The Wesmen and the stockade below them were shattered and the cavalry rode out into the open air less than half an hour later, once a mage under a CloakedWalk had reported that the trail outside the pass was empty.

‘I think it would be fair to say that we caught them completely cold,’ said Darrick. The cavalry general and The Raven were sharing a farewell drink in the lee of the western pass entrance.

‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey,’ said Hirad, smiling. ‘We could have taken the stockade ourselves.’

Darrick laughed. ‘I don’t doubt it.’ He passed around the spirit bottle once more, and each of them replenished their mugs.

‘So what’s your next move?’ asked Thraun.

‘We need to keep the pass open for a couple of days until we can fortify at this end. Our best method of holding back the Wesmen will clearly be to stop them retaking it.’

‘Not easy,’ said Jandyr.

‘No,’ agreed Darrick. ‘But we’ll have another five thousand foot here in a few days, and if we can get a good rest tonight, I suspect our mages will be able to do most of the work.’ He drank. ‘But you. You are the ones with the task ahead of you. It’ll be difficult.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Hirad. ‘We could do with another blade. Perhaps you should reconsider my invitation to join The Raven?’

‘I think I’ll stick to cavalry for now.’

Hirad looked into the sky. It was early afternoon and the cloud that was sweeping towards Understone had cleared this side of the pass, leaving broken blue sky and a gentle breeze. Further west, though, it was darker.

‘See anything our way, Ilkar?’ he asked, following the elf’s gaze.

‘Nothing but hills and trees and good wholesome countryside. And it’ll continue to look good so long as it’s not swarming with Wesmen.’

‘We’d best be on our way and find a sensible place to get our heads down,’ said The Unknown. ‘Staying here too long could be bad for the health.’

‘Staying here would be fine,’ corrected Darrick. ‘Leaving to go west later today or in the morning, I suspect, would not.’

‘Either way . . .’ The Unknown got to his feet, waiting for Denser to rise before moving to his horse. ‘Thraun, are you confident of the route?’

Thraun nodded, swinging into his saddle. ‘I’ve studied the maps long enough.’

Hirad shook Darrick’s hand. ‘Keep the pass open, will you? We might be needing it in a hurry.’

‘Just keep yourself alive. I haven’t finished sparring with you yet.’

‘Four, two, isn’t it?’

‘Four, three. Good luck.’

The Raven rode away and were lost to sight.

Chapter 28

The castle town of Blackthorne, its fishing fleet beached and hidden, lay in a shallow valley in the lee of the mountains where the rock joined the sea. Its tactical importance had not been lost on those who built it, controlling as it did trails to Understone northwards and Gyernath in the southeast.

Blackthorne was of the opinion that the Wesmen’s principal aim in taking his town was to use it to stage raids on Darrick at the pass, and to a lesser extent, to attack the south-eastern port. He had no doubt that control of the pass was paramount to the Wesmen because it gave them the access they required to mount a meaningful offensive on the College cities, key to the domination of eastern Balaia.

The beach attack party reached the castle well before mid-morning on a cloudy, cool and breezy day, leaving scouts to monitor Wesmen movement inland. The sky was dark to the west, and with the prevailing wind bringing that darkness towards them, rain was surely coming. Organising defence of the castle was a relatively simple task. With most of the non-fighting population of the town already halfway to the more heavily defended Gyernath, or heading for Korina, Blackthorne had chosen a two-stage defence.

The outer walls of the town were sturdy and well maintained but not designed to withstand prolonged assault from the kind of numbers the Wesmen would bring to bear. Blackthorne had stationed three-quarters of his archers and a further fifty offensive mages, both with defensive cover, on the walls. When the first Wesmen breached the walls, they were to retreat. Blackthorne considered that there would be a mound of corpses four deep outside his town before they conceded it to the enemy.

The castle was his focus. Set at the northern edge of the town, it had been built to fend off Wesmen attacks from Understone Pass. Its sheer outer walls rose more than seventy feet above the town, completely encircling the keep, with turrets set at six intervals providing lookout support, battle direction and archer cover.

The castle’s north gates, usually open to trade – the marketplace was inside the castle walls – had been shut and reinforced with bands of steel. Surrounding them, the gate towers were built forward and over an open arch, creating a lethal killing ground. The town walls facing the Wesmen were of similar construction.

Outside the north gates, cavalry were stationed to force any Wesmen advance around the castle back towards the beach. Inside the walls, the townsmen waited. On the walls, archers, swordsmen and mages. And in the keep itself, a simple circular building with battlements built out in a square around its top some fifty feet above the outer walls, the Barons, healers, bodyguards, cooks and many of Gresse’s mercenaries.

The battlements, nicknamed ‘the Crown’ because of the way they sat slightly uncomfortably atop the keep, bristled with heavy crossbow positions, oil dumps and Blackthorne’s best mages. They had food for three months, and Blackthorne reckoned that if it wasn’t over by then, Darrick would have lost Understone, Balaia would be open to pillage and the war lost. All they could do now was wait.

The Wesmen didn’t keep them long.

Styliann, mind still clouded with rage and an unquenchable desire for revenge, clattered to a stop at the eastern end of Understone Pass at the head of a column of one hundred Protectors. It was early afternoon. The guards at the pass looked at him fearfully but knew what they had to do. They stood in his path.

‘Please state your business,’ said one with deferential politeness.

‘The slaughter of Wesmen,’ said Styliann, his voice matter-of-fact, his face brooking no argument.

‘I have orders to hold unauthorised traffic here awaiting clearance from General Darrick.’ There was apology in his tone.

‘Do you know who I am?’ demanded Styliann.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Then you will also know that it was I who set the orders for your commander to follow. I give myself the clearance to travel the pass. Stand aside.’

The guard looked at him, doubt and anxiety in his mind.

Styliann raised an eyebrow. ‘Where is Darrick?’ he asked.

‘At the far end, my Lord, overseeing construction of the fortifications. ’

‘Then you have discharged your duties admirably,’ said Styliann. ‘He can personally clear me to travel when I meet him.’

The guard smiled, comfortable with Styliann’s logic. He stood aside. ‘Good luck, my Lord.’

Styliann stared down at him. ‘Luck is something on which I never rely.’ He rode into the pass, his Protectors behind him, silent, masked and disturbing.

Styliann’s passage through the pass was swift, his horses bred for stamina. He barely noticed the devastation Xetesk’s new spell had caused and certainly had no mind to admire its success. He rode on, reaching the end of the pass as dusk gathered, pulling up to a stop when he saw Darrick.

The two men gazed at each other for a time, Darrick reading his face, Styliann burning with the desire to be at the throats of the men who had raped and murdered Selyn. Darrick said nothing, simply nodding, stepping from his path and waving him through. Styliann and the Protectors galloped into Wesmen lands. For them there would be no halt for a night’s rest. Styliann had places he needed to reach and something to prove to an arrogant barbarian.

Hirad awoke glad of the leather-clad bivouac shelters Thraun had insisted they raise over themselves the night before. At the time, it had seemed a pointless exercise in irritation, but now, with the rain thrumming on the material above his head, Hirad smiled.

He sat up, scratching his head. He could smell a fire and, looking out, saw Will crouched over his stove, leather over his shoulders and a wide-brimmed hat pulled forward over his face. Water steamed away on an open pot.

Beside Hirad, Ilkar stirred and awoke, opening one eye on the weather.

‘Wake me when it’s dry,’ he said, and turned over.

‘I’d hate to be in Understone with this coming down,’ said Hirad. Ilkar grunted.

The camp came slowly to life. Set in an area of lightly wooded land on the downhill side of a lively stream, the four shelters sat in a rough semicircle. Will’s wood-burner was at its centre. They were a long way from Understone Pass and the relative security of Darrick’s cavalry, and Hirad felt strangely ill at ease.

Surrounded by his closest friends and people he trusted with his life, he couldn’t shake the fear of the new from his bones. He had rarely been in the lands west of Understone Pass before, and with only a small inkling of where they were headed, drawn from maps and stories, he was nervous.

They all took breakfast hunched under their shelters, the rain showing no signs of easing as it shouldered its way through leaf and branch to patter and drum on earth and leather. Across the stream, and on the other side of the gentle slope on which they sat, the land quickly turned harder as it tracked northwards, becoming steep climbs, cold peaks and barren plateaux. Their destination lay across easier travel to the south-west.

‘How far to the Wrethsires from here?’ Hirad asked.

Thraun sat with Will at the far end of the half-circle; next to them were Erienne and Denser, his arm about her shoulders, with The Unknown and Jandyr next to Hirad.

‘A day, no more,’ replied Thraun through a mouthful of bread. ‘That assumes we can steer clear of Wesmen.’

‘We’re heading away from their major concentrations, and with so many on the move, if we keep off the path we should be safe enough,’ said The Unknown. ‘Anyway, I’ve heard you’re not bad at keeping hidden.’ He smiled.

‘Not bad.’

‘It’s a shock, isn’t it, discovering you’re something you don’t want to be.’ The Unknown’s voice carried a sorrow so deep that Hirad almost spilled his coffee.

Thraun and the big man locked eyes, every other member of The Raven waiting for the reaction.

But Thraun merely nodded. ‘Only someone like you can possibly understand the pain and the fear. I would give anything not to be as I am.’

‘But in the crypts, you seemed—’ said Erienne.

‘Only when there is no other way. And then in terror for everything I know and love.’ He got up. ‘I’ll saddle the horses.’ The Unknown followed him from the camp, leaving the rest to a confused silence.

‘It’s not a blessing,’ said Will eventually, killing the flame in the stove and unhooking the pieces to cool them on the wet earth. ‘He is terrified that one day he will lose himself in the mind of the wolf and never be able to change back.’

The Raven moved off twenty minutes later, with the rain pounding on leathers and the stream behind them thrashing as it filled. Thraun chose the trail but kept his thoughts to himself.

Hirad and Ilkar dropped back to flank The Unknown, who rode directly behind Denser and Erienne.

‘Why did Thraun think you could understand him?’ asked Hirad.

‘Subtlety never was a strong point of yours, was it, Hirad?’ Ilkar sniffed.

The Unknown shook his head. ‘At least he never changes,’ he said. ‘Look, Hirad, it’s complex and not very pleasant. Not to me, anyway.’ He looked to Denser, but the Dark Mage was at least giving the impression of not listening. ‘We were both brought up knowing we were different. You’ll have to ask Thraun how he came to know, but the point is, we were both something we didn’t want to be yet something we could never escape. Mind you, I believed I could.’ The Unknown bit his lip.

‘Don’t feel you—’ began Ilkar.

‘No. I might as well. At least this way it’s just you two, and Denser already knows. There’s nothing random about being chosen as a Protector. I’m a Xeteskian. We – they are bred for strength, stamina and speed from carefully chosen lineage. I was weapons-trained early, and at thirteen discovered my destiny. It’s not something you are supposed to find out, for obvious reasons. I thought I was just being schooled for the College Guard.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t like the idea that my soul was already sold to the Mount of Xetesk so I ran away. Apparently it happens all the time when people find out, and they let you go. I mean, why not? When you can’t escape them even when you die.’

‘So you’ve always known?’ Hirad felt at once swept empty with sorrow and distrusted. Here was the secret he’d kept for ten years. ‘Is this all linked to your name?’

‘Yes. Pathetic, really. I couldn’t deny my calling but I refused to admit it to myself. I tried false names but they never fitted, so I ended up just never telling anyone anything. When Ilkar came up with The Unknown Warrior, that did fit. A name that was no name, if you like. I felt at home.’ Another biting of the lip. His eyes glistened and his voice was gruff. ‘And then, of course, with The Raven, I thought I’d never die. But that’s no escape either.’ He set his jaw and looked forwards.

‘Sorry, I’ve lost you,’ said Ilkar.

‘Me too,’ said Hirad. ‘I mean, if you were so anxious not to die, why did you take on all those dogs by yourself?’

‘Because when I realised they’d come for me anyway, I thought at least I could die saving you. All of you. And perhaps that I’d get away, dying so far from Xetesk in a place where the mana was unstable. I thought they wouldn’t find me.’

‘Hang on, can we backtrack a little? What do you mean, they’d come for you anyway?’ Ilkar hoped he wasn’t beginning to understand. But The Unknown just shook his head again and bored his eyes into Denser’s back.

Denser turned his horse and fell in beside Ilkar. ‘He means that the demons would have taken his soul from him eventually, dead or alive. He means he knew his time was running out. After all, what good is a forty-year-old Protector?’ Denser’s words were hard but his tone was thick with disgust. ‘That is why he chose to die, because it was his only chance of saving himself as well as us. But they found him. They stole his death.’ He urged his horse to join Erienne once more. ‘And now you know it all, and why poor Laryon and I wanted to free them. Too many of them were never dead in the first place.’

Hirad formed words but no sound came for a time. He stared first at Denser and then at The Unknown, stunned by what his friend had been carrying all those years. The lies he had told to hide himself not only from them but from himself too. He had never had any future, or choice, and yet he had never once given them the slightest hint of his true self. What he was meant to be, and what he was for a short time.

The Unknown turned to Hirad, as if sensing the barbarian’s train of thought. ‘I wanted what we had to be true so badly that most of the time I believed it myself. The retirement, The Rookery, all of it.’

‘And now you can!’ Hirad felt a sudden, irrational surge of joy. ‘When this is over, you can!’

But The Unknown silenced him. ‘I should never have been released. Too much is lost.’ He stifled a sob. Denser looked back over his shoulder, a look of horror on his face. The Unknown nodded. ‘Just like you, Denser, just like you.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ilkar was suddenly frantic.

‘The souls of the Protectors meld in the Mount. We are as one. When mine was taken back, part of me, that part that the brotherhood of the Protectors gave me, was lost for ever. I live, I breathe, I laugh, I cry, but inside I am empty. The Gods save any of you from knowing how that feels.’

The Wesmen army, angry, depleted and determined to exact revenge, marched on Blackthorne the following morning. They arrived just as the rain ceased its intermittent sprinkling, and stood well out of spell range.

Blackthorne watched from the Crown, gazing out over his town, its walls and on to the Wesmen-covered grasslands beyond. Gresse, once again by his side, flexed his fingers nervously, seeing the force assemble its ranks and lines. For more than three hours, they poured into the open space, striding to the beat of drums, their standards snapping in the fresh breeze, carts rattling behind, the shouts of leaders mixing with the howls and barks of dogs.

Thousands and thousands of Wesmen carpeted the ground, a sea of fur-clad hate and power ready to wash against the walls of Blackthorne. The Baron shook his head, barely believing so many had survived the carnage on the water. But still they came, the standards now numbering over a hundred, all stabbed into the earth on a rise less than a mile away. Ignoring the temptation to encircle the town, the Wesmen massed before the south gates, their numbers sending ripple after ripple of anxiety through the thin line of defenders.

From the centre of the army that Blackthorne estimated to number seven thousand or more, six Shamen walked calmly forwards, flanked by a dozen warriors, furs ruffling in the wind, hard faces taking in the walls, blades sharp and heavy. Immediately, mages on the outer walls began preparing. IceWind, DeathHail, ShieldSheer. The Shamen moved on, and at two hundred yards, Gresse thought they might want to talk. At one hundred and fifty yards, Blackthorne issued fire orders.

Spells crackled across the Shamen’s shield, lights flaring over its surface, the DeathHail bouncing and shattering as it met the greater magical force which glowed white in resistance. A storm of arrows arced across the gap, those on target bouncing away as the hard shield held. Still the Shamen walked on. At fifty yards, they stopped to cast.