Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Up in the crags, more fire was cast down upon the milling lines of Wesmen, caught in a steep-sided gully only thirty yards wide. After the first volley of arrows, the archers concentrated fire on the Shamen, picking off as many as they could before the shields went up. Others shot down the scrambling Wesmen.

At the head of the crags, the fighting was intense. The Wesmen had regrouped and pressed hard. Blackthorne, a wound in his leg, turned his horse and shouldered his way left and away, still slicing down at the enemy as he went. Gresse had been overtaken by younger men and horses, and for now was merely a spectator. He decided to press backwards and wait for his breath. Then the fire struck.

Left and right, white bolts arced into the walls of the crags while forwards, black lines of death leapt from Shamen fingertips, seeking bodies to rip and tear. Beside Gresse, a man’s eyes exploded outwards as the black fire caught him square in the centre of the forehead. He went down thrashing and twitching. All around now, men and beasts were being slaughtered, but the Wesmen lines were backing off. Gresse changed his mind, dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, yelled men to his side and went after the Shamen.

Crags exploded, sending boulders, mages and archers tumbling. But while the western magic stopped, the Shamen had caused their own disaster as rock avalanched down, sweeping away men and crushing them against each other and the ground.

At the front of the lines, Blackthorne’s men redoubled their efforts, hacking their way through Wesmen. Gresse and his men were almost on a knot of Shamen busy preparing new spells and not seeing the danger they were in. Gresse swatted one man aside with an overhead to the chest. Beside him, one was cut from his horse and died under a welter of blows. The old Baron spurred his horse, trampled the last man aside and rode for the Shamen. As he raised his sword to strike, they opened their eyes and their fingers crackled with black fire.

The Raven hit the streets of Parve and galloped for the square. Behind them, Darrick and his cavalry were grinding the Wesmen down but taking heavy casualties themselves.

Hirad and The Unknown headed the gallop with Denser right behind them. At the rear, Thraun kept station, with the rest in the middle. Down empty streets they raced, towards the beacon fires that crested the pyramid, breaking into the square from the north. It was full of Acolytes.

Ignoring the battles behind them, hundreds of red cloaks swayed and intoned, the hum of their voices loud in the sound bowl that was the centre of Parve. There had to be five hundred of them, sitting in ordered rows, the first of which was a good hundred yards distant of the tunnel entrance.

‘Go! Go!’ yelled Hirad as The Raven threatened to slow. He ploughed on around the side of the square, turning left for the pyramid as the first Acolyte sounded the note of warning. The humming stopped, to be replaced by shouts of anger. The Raven rode on, Hirad slipping from his horse by the tunnel entrance and sweeping his sword through the stomach of one of the guards that flanked it. The second made it no further than The Unknown’s blade.

Behind them, the rest of The Raven dismounted, the horses cantering away with Denser’s at their head. For a time, the crowd simply stood and watched the invasion of their temple, but as The Raven looked to disappear into the gloom, the Acolytes mobbed and ran at them. Like a wave rushing at the shore, the red tide surged towards them, yelling their fury, their numbers simply overwhelming, the intent clear in a thousand eyes.

‘Great Gods in the sky,’ breathed Hirad. ‘What now?’

‘You and Denser, get to the tomb. We’ll hold them as long as we can and pray Darrick and Styliann arrive before they tear us limb from limb.’

‘No, Unknown,’ began Hirad, ‘I’m not lea—’

‘This is for Balaia now, Hirad. The one thing bigger than The Raven. Go!’ He turned to face the Acolytes, Thraun one side of him, Jandyr and Will to the right. Erienne and Ilkar stood behind.

‘You come back to me, Denser,’ warned Erienne. They clasped hands briefly before the Dawnthief mage and his bodyguard sprinted away along the tunnel, The Unknown’s orders in their ears and the sound of his sword point tapping on stone echoing away before them into the torchlit gloom.

The black fire drilled into Gresse’s horse just below the breast plate. The animal screamed and collapsed, an awful keening sound of pain not comprehended. Gresse was pitched hard to the floor, his head connecting with stone.

Behind him, Blackthorne, his wound stemmed with bright red cloth, saw the fall of his friend. Calling men to him, he drove back into the battle while all around him the black fire scorched through bodies and tore flesh and armour apart. The mêlée was confused now, with loose horses causing danger to everyone. The Wesmen lines were buckled and broken by boulder and sword alike but Blackthorne’s men had no magic and the Shamen were slowly changing the odds. The Baron kicked on, promising himself that if he couldn’t save Gresse, he’d complete the job the older man had started. The Shamen had to die.

Hirad and Denser ran along the tunnel. It was lit by braziers along the walls and carved in runes over the whole of its length. Behind him, the barbarian heard the sound of battle being joined by The Raven and he prayed he’d find them all alive again. The tunnel was two hundred yards long, and at the end of it, double doors stood closed. They were plain and heavy, with great brass handles either side at chest height.

As he approached, Hirad’s limbs took on a heaviness he hadn’t experienced since his fight with Isman in the Black Wings’ castle. Evil weighed on his muscles, pawed at his heart and dragged at his courage, enticing him to turn and run. The power of the Wytch Lords ran from the walls, fuelled the braziers and seeped into the air he breathed. The barbarian felt as if some giant hand was pressed on his forehead, pushing him back. It was Denser who broke the spell, the sound of his breath in Hirad’s ear as they reached the doors, the pulsating of his aura as he neared his ultimate goal blowing the evil aside.

Revitalised, Hirad pushed the left-hand door open and ran inside, Denser right behind him. They were in the pyramid; the architecture was different. Either side of a long flight of stone stairs, great slabs of mixed marble and stone rose into the gloom above their heads. The stairs were a good twenty feet wide and lit by pairs of torches resting in free-standing three-legged iron posts. The torch posts stood on every other of the forty steps. Two Guardians stood at the top, dressed in red cloaks and chainmail, each with a long curved blade – ceremonial but effective.

‘Stay behind me, Denser.’

‘I have no intention of doing otherwise.’

The Guardians moved to the top of the steps and stopped.

‘You are too late. The Masters are awakening. Kneel or be destroyed. ’

‘Save your breath for your prayers,’ snarled Hirad. He launched a vicious attack on the right-hand man, sweeping his blade low and leaning in to drag the point across his thighs. Expecting a higher strike, the Guardian dropped his sword too late and Hirad’s blade bit deep, sweeping out just above the knee. As the leg collapsed, and the man with it, Hirad hurdled him and faced the other square on. He laughed.

‘Want to try?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. Feinting a lunge, he side-stepped and swung double-handed at the Guardian’s chest. The blow was blocked but the man stumbled back under its force. Overheaded, Hirad struck again and again, beating the Guardian’s blade down until, face exposed, he caught the point of his jaw. The enemy dropped without a sound. He turned to see Denser pull his dagger from the first man’s heart.

The stairs led up to a corridor of marble, perhaps thirty feet long. Fires lit the way, let into the walls, their flickering glows illuminating the intricate mosaics depicting lines of people in red, bowing before six tall figures with light cradling their heads. Hirad ignored the picture, skating over its slippery surface with eyes locked on the single open door ahead. It was small, like the entrance to any house, but there was movement coming from within. He slid into the wall next to it and peered inside, his breath sweeping from his body as the shock hit him.

Six sarcophagi arranged as the spokes of a wheel, heads pointing inwards, dominated the large chamber. Each was well over nine feet long. And praying in the candlelit room were the Keepers. Twelve of them, two for each casket, heads bowed, speaking incantations in a language Hirad could not understand. Even from where he stood, Hirad could feel the chill inside the Chamber, like midwinter in the Blackthorne Mountains. The Keepers’ breath clouded as they spoke and a dull thudding reverberated around the walls.

‘Denser, we’re here,’ he hissed.

The Dark Mage came to his side. ‘I’ll need several minutes to cast.’

‘Well, get on with it.’

Denser moved back a dozen paces, laid the catalysts on the marble in front of him, dropped his head and began to form the shape of the most powerful spell ever created.

The Shamen destroyed the barrier they had created and Tessaya’s men stormed back into Understone Pass, running over, round and through the bodies of the defenders who had been trapped when the rocks came down.

Inside the pass, the devastation was startling. Men lay crushed beneath thousands of tons of stone, their catapults and heavy crossbows shattered and useless, defences beaten to splinters. For fifteen yards it was the same. The rockfalls must have claimed the lives of hundreds.

Darrick’s generals had retreated with any survivors, their next best defensive position being Understone itself and the sturdier structures, the building of which Darrick had overseen before his ride into the Wesmen lands. Crossbow towers, catapult emplacements, spiked stockades and camouflaged archer positions. None of it would stand up to the magic of the Shamen, but this time the defenders would be far more numerous.

The men of the east had only held the pass for three days, and now tens of thousands of Wesmen were running through it. Pouring over its drying stone, the Wesmen boiled along the pass, a swarm threatening to devour the east, its cities and its people. A howling mass of triumphant warriors dreaming of the eastern sun on their faces and more eastern blood on their swords. And this time, with the Shaman magic backing their every move, there was no one in front of them with the power to stop them for long.

‘Shield up,’ said Ilkar as The Unknown continued to tap his blade on the stone of the tunnel, watching the Acolytes running towards them, red clothing flapping as they came. Some had weapons but not all, and those at the head of the chase gained hesitancy as they approached.

‘We need a fast start,’ said The Unknown. ‘If we don’t scare them quickly, they’ll overwhelm us. Erienne, I need a hard shield in case they bring up archers.’

‘I hear you.’

‘Jandyr, fall back,’ ordered The Unknown.

‘I’m not moving.’

‘Jandyr.’

‘Save it, Unknown.’

The first Acolytes ran into the tunnel. The Unknown ceased his tapping and battle was joined. He moved forward a half-pace to give himself room to swing and shattered the chest of the first man at him. The Acolyte was flung right, cannoning into those next to him, dead before he hit the ground.

Ilkar watched the line. To The Unknown’s left, Thraun snapped his blade up to deflect the strike of the man in front of him, moved and punched out his left hand with extraordinary speed. He caught the man in the mouth, rammed the hilt of his blade into his midriff, head-butted him, then plunged his blade into the Acolyte’s gut. He roared and looked for his next man.

For Jandyr, though, the situation was more difficult. Despite his ability, having only one hand and a weakened body left him very wary. For now, he satisfied himself with defence, the sweat starting to form on his forehead. Will, his dual short swords whirling in front of him, laced cut after cut at the men in front of him, fielding blows and countering with speed and dexterity.

‘Shield up,’ said Erienne.

Across the corridor, Thraun was destroying his attackers, the speed of his fist and blade too much for the Acolytes, who lacked the experience and determination of The Raven.

After The Unknown had carved open the face of another, the Acolytes fell back in response to shouted commands. Guardians rushed to fill the breach, curved blades flashing in the sunlight then dulling as they reached the tunnel’s shade.

‘Let’s go again, Raven,’ shouted The Unknown. ‘We can take them.’

An explosion sounded to the right of the square. Blue light flashed briefly. The Acolytes outside froze briefly in surprise and ran left. Styliann had arrived in the square.

Darrick roared his men on as he dashed the skull of a Shaman with his blade, the Shaman’s magic shutting off as his lifeless body flopped to the floor. On seven fronts the Wesmen lines were breached and the surviving defenders were weakening.

‘Close ranks!’ he yelled. ‘Pressure the right. We’re moving for the square.’ He urged his mount forwards, bludgeoning another Wesmen warrior as he picked up pace, his men tightening their grip behind him. With the Shamen threat almost removed, some of his mages turned their attention to the offence, and HardRain fell on the right-hand end of the Wesmen lines. It was too much for the defenders. All along the battle front Wesmen broke ranks and ran, some into the Wastes, others back into Parve.

‘Cavalry, to me!’ Darrick’s shout was picked up by his lieutenants, and the four-College cavalry surged through the remnants of Wesmen resistance and raced for the pyramid, a detonation from the square ringing in their ears.

Styliann’s second EarthHammer had torn great holes in Parve’s central square and triggered the panic he wanted. The Protectors had fanned into a single skirmish line ninety men wide and were sweeping towards the pyramid, swords and axes rising, falling and slicing, thundering through the Acolytes, whose pitiful defences were ripped apart.

The Lord of the Mount wasn’t finished, and his latest FlameOrb fell in the centre of the scattering, milling Acolytes, exploding and sending flame lashing in all directions. Men and women were destroyed, others catching tongues of mana fire, which scorched faces and lit up cloaks.

The Acolytes began to pour out of the western and northern sides of the square but changed direction again, herding and running back towards the pyramid. Styliann’s frowns turned to smiles as he saw the first of the four-College cavalry galloping in. Parve was almost theirs.

The Keepers felt the beginnings of Denser’s casting and surged to their feet, snatching daggers from belts.

‘Infidel,’ hissed one as Hirad barred their way, his frame large in the doorway. He beckoned them on while behind him Denser closed his eyes and entered another world.

So unlike the test shapes he had made, preparing Dawnthief with the catalysts in front of his kneeling body added a new dimension. Before, the shape had been two-dimensional, and grey in colour. Now, blood red, it modulated in the air, sending shivers through the mana flow around Denser’s head. He fought to contain it, willing it to mould into the shape he needed.

But it was as if it had life of its own, and at every turn, more sides joined the complex polygon. He couldn’t allow that. To cast with any more sides would be to cast with enough power to destroy everything to the east of the mountains, and deep within him burned the desire to get out alive.

Denser added the catalyst commands to the mix, and the mana shape pulsed with myriad colours. Finally, he had exerted control, but the measurements had to be so utterly precise. He had to be sure of strength, of direction, of distance. He dropped back into himself and checked every line, every colour and every pulse. And as he did so, Dawnthief fought to break free.

Hirad surveyed the slaughter in progress. While he was barring the door, only one at a time could come at him with any freedom, and he just cut them down as they did so. Six-inch daggers could never hope to beat a long sword, and because they would not stop coming, he did not stop killing them. Once six were down, his biggest problem lay in not slipping on the blood-slick floor.

Hirad clambered over the bodies to take the last two. Never uttering a word, he swatted them down and then looked in disgust at what he had done. They might as well have been unarmed, so futile was their defence, and he felt sick to his stomach. Never mind that they had been Acolytes of the Wytch Lords, it was the ease with which he had turned off and massacred them that was the cause of his nausea.

He’d put up his sword and turned to leave the room when he heard the grating of stone on stone. His blood chilled, the temperature of the room dived again and his body began to shake. He forced himself to turn, gorge rising, fighting the urge to scream. One of the sarcophagus lids had moved. Just a little. But it had moved. He backed away. It moved again. He stepped on a body and fell sliding in the gore, slipping forwards and coming to rest right underneath one of the stone caskets. Its lid moved. Then they all did, grating together and sending tremors through Hirad’s body that left him heaving for air.

He scrabbled backwards, trying to get his feet under him, but the floor was so wet. He dragged himself to his haunches, turned and pulled bodies out of his way, the only thought in his mind that he had to close the door. He didn’t know why, he just had to. The first clang drew a cry from his lips and he felt his heart lurch. The pain in his chest was brief and intense.

‘Oh, Gods,’ he breathed. ‘Come on, Denser. Come on, Denser.’ But through the door he could see the Dark Mage still preparing. He dared not look behind him. Another clang. And another. He hauled the last body from the doorway, leapt outside, grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. His eyes caught the scene in the chamber. Long-fingered bone hands were clutching the sides of the caskets, white digits clacking on the stone as they sought for purchase.

Nausea swept through his body. The evil of centuries flooded the chamber, forcing the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs, which sagged beneath him as he clutched and pushed at the door handle, trying desperately to believe that he had been mistaken in what he had seen. But he knew he wasn’t. He had seen the end of Balaia rising from the grave, the animation of a horror so black it defied reason and struck at the very core of sanity. A power great enough to cast down mountains, tear holes in the sky and make rivers of blood from the bodies of the peoples of the east.

Hirad gasped, his fingers losing sensation as he struggled to maintain a consciousness that seeped from him with every laboured heartbeat. He held the door against Balaia’s greatest enemy, a pitiful wretch trying to stop night from falling.

The Wytch Lords were awake.

The Guardians were skilled and fierce, driven by fury at the desecration of their masters’ tomb. In The Raven line, The Unknown and Thraun defended and killed with power and pace. But at the right-hand end, the going was less sure. Jandyr was struggling in front of a clever swordsman who had immediately recognised his opponent’s problem and hacked overhead, driving the elf’s blade close to his face. Will, although defending stoutly enough, was making little headway, breaking through the guard of his enemy just the once to mark his cheek with a long, ugly cut.

Erienne watched on, maintaining the HardShield but beginning to feel it was pointless. Ilkar was no doubt thinking much the same. As she watched, Jandyr’s arm buckled under another heavy blow, and before he could recover, the Guardian had skewered his heart, the elf crying out as he fell.

‘No!’ The Unknown surged as he heard Jandyr die, crashing his blade through a Guardian’s skull and reversing his swing to smash another’s hip. A beat later, Darrick ran in at the head of a centile of cavalry and mages. Caught between twin meshes of flashing steel, the remaining Guardians were quickly slaughtered. Darrick nodded at The Unknown, taking in the lifeless body of Jandyr as Will crouched over the elf.

‘Damn it,’ said the General. He turned to a lieutenant. ‘You. I want guard on this tunnel, I want cavalry sweeping the City and I want this square clear of enemies. Do it now.’ He swung back to The Unknown. ‘Where’s Hirad?’

‘In the pyramid with Denser.’ The Unknown was breathing hard.

‘Get after them. I’ll hold things here. Styliann’s outside, there should be no danger.’

The Unknown nodded his thanks.

‘Raven! Raven with me!’

Styliann surveyed the square with great satisfaction. Acolyte bodies covered it, their blood and cloaks making a carpet of red. Here and there, pockets of Wesmen attacked the cavalry and his Protectors, but their resistance was broken. He sighed. As they took Parve by surprise, making a mockery of the wholly insufficient defence, so the weight of the Wesmen armies were surely marching in the east, driving all before them.

He rode towards the entrance to the tunnel and dismounted, leaning against its right-hand pillar, suddenly tired. The last battle was taking place inside, but he found he had no desire to join it.

His mana stamina was low, his desire for vengeance appeased. He could wait for Dawnthief to walk back out and straight into his possession. He sat and rested his head in his hands, a wind ruffling his hair.

Hirad’s knuckles whitened on the handle, the sounds from within the room dragging whimpers from his body and sweat from his pores. He felt cold. Hot. So very hot. Cold. His muscles felt they were about to seize and his legs shook so much their juddering unsteadied him. His eyes swam, his head fogged. And then he felt pressure on the handle from the other side. Gentle at first, but quickly more urgent.

‘Denser, please.’ His whispers choked in his throat. His hands tightened on the door handle. It turned underneath them, just slightly. Fists thudded against the door, jarring his body as he leant all his weight against it. A heavy blow and the door all but opened. From behind, the sounds of exultation, of rising, of power. Hirad felt the breath stick in his lungs.

‘Denser!’ he screamed. ‘Now!’ Behind him, Denser moaned and chanted, his short breathing jabbing anxiety into Hirad’s mind. He wasn’t sure but the Xeteskian sounded as if he was struggling badly. And the spell remained uncast.

The second blow shattered the door timbers. Hirad was thrown skittering across the marble, wrist aflame with agony.

‘Denser!’ The silhouette of a Wytch Lord stood in the doorway, tattered burial robe hanging, flesh creeping over exposed bones. Hirad saw eyeless sockets in a wedge-shaped head as the towering figure stooped under the lintel. It breathed.

‘Heretic.’ Its voice like a body dragged over gravel.

As Hirad watched, the flesh began to form and grow on its body.

Slowly at first, then with greater and greater pace, enveloping its hands, rushing up its legs and stretching over its ribs, covering the organs which grew and writhed and beat from nothing.

The Wytch Lord, tall and terrible, looked down on him as its body re-formed, empty sockets alive with new life, eyes sucking into being, dark, cold and murderous. Other figures crowded behind it. It took a pace forward, the rags of its clothing growing into robes of pure white, ruffling in the breeze of their creation, its bare feet gaining bulk and muscle, toes straightening.

Hirad glanced at Denser. The Dark Mage, sweat beading and running from his forehead, fought with the spell. His arms, now stretched in front of him, juddered wildly; his voice, low and hoarse, gabbled words the barbarian would never understand.

‘Hurry, Denser,’ said Hirad, drawing his sword. ‘Hurry.’ He moved to the ready. The Wytch Lords stood in the doorway to the burial chamber, looming over him, each one well in excess of eight feet in height.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘See if you can take me.’ He raised his sword and prepared to move. So did the Wytch Lords, the first stepping into the antechamber, its brothers moving to either side. Hirad licked his lips. He was about to die but it wouldn’t be alone. Because behind him he heard the pacing of feet and the tapping of steel on stone; rhythmic, echoing, beautiful. A euphoric sensation ran up his spine, the blood surged in his veins and new belief flooded his mind. It was all he needed to give Denser the time to complete Dawnthief.

‘Raven!’ he called. ‘Raven to me!’

Detached though he was from the danger surrounding him, Denser was dimly aware of the clamour of voices, of running footsteps and the urgency in Hirad’s every utterance. Dawnthief’s mana shape was as rich as it was difficult to control and, deep within his subconscious, Denser thanked the Master for not leaving out any detail or nuance from his long years of teaching.

Never before had a spell fought to control him, use him to develop its potential and drain him as it sought more power. It wasn’t that the spell was sentient but that the shape his words, gestures and thoughts generated only really had one end: total consummation of the caster and, with him, Balaia.

Only now did he realise the true nature of Septern’s most awful research. And the truth was that now the basic shape was created, he could simply surrender to a chain reaction that would lead to the destruction of everything. The stealing of light. The theft of dawn.

And so he fought its every effort, cut out every flare of the complex shape, halted every counter-axial spin, every attempt to stop motion and every pull on his rigidly controlled mana reserve. Still it drained him and he was not ready to cast. In front of him, mana joined the catalysts, burning in a triangle that lifted them from the ground and fused them into the core of the spell. The power increased, tempting and probing.

Yet the focus wasn’t there, the power too randomised. To cast now would take The Raven into oblivion along with the Wytch Lords. And though sense told him that was a price that should be paid, he was not prepared to give up. He wanted a channel for Dawnthief’s energy, and in theory he could make one. But with the sounds of fighting filtering into his mind, he was aware he had little time left in which to put his theory into practice.

Hirad’s sword clattered into the undefended side of the Wytch Lord, Arumun. He knew its name, and those of the other five, because the clarion call of fear they had launched at his mind was empowered by the use of the six terrifying identifiers. When Denser had spoken the names, that was all they had seemed. Now, confronting the ancient evil, those names lodged deep in his gut and threatened to take the strength from his limbs.

Arumun howled and fell back, wound gaping, dark fluid oozing. Hirad’s shout of triumph cut off abruptly. The wound healed in moments and Arumun straightened and was pushed upright by those behind him, shaking his head.

‘Gods,’ breathed Hirad. The Wytch Lord stepped forward and whipped out its hand with a speed that almost beat Hirad’s guard. He staggered under its weight.

‘We can’t fight them,’ he said.

‘Yes, we can,’ said The Unknown. ‘All we have to do is keep them back.’ He swung his blade through waist high, connecting with flesh and splintering bone. Belphamun collapsed to the floor. ‘They’re still weak. Let’s keep them that way.’

‘Shield up,’ said Ilkar.

Hirad half froze and looked behind the three Wytch Lords who confronted them. The other three, Ystormun, Pamun and Weyamun, were casting.

‘Let’s take it to them, Raven!’ Standing half a pace behind and to the right of The Unknown Warrior, Hirad blocked another sweep of the hand from Arumun and buried his blade in the Wytch Lord’s chest. The wound was healing before he dragged his sword clear. He glanced along the line.

Belphamun had risen quickly, The Unknown ducked a haymaking punch and chopped at its legs, cracking bone, causing it to stumble. Seizing his chance, he reversed his guard into its face and slashed halfway through its neck. This time, the fall was heavier, the cry of pain more hideous.

‘Shield up. Denser is covered,’ said Erienne.

Giriamun swatted at Will, catching the frightened man on the top of his shoulder. He shouted briefly and crumpled. Thraun bellowed anger and hacked at the flailing arm, shattering the elbow. Giriamun simply came back with the other, fist connecting sharply with the top of Thraun’s skull. The young warrior spun and fell senseless.

‘Damn it,’ rasped The Unknown.

‘Come on, Denser,’ whispered Hirad.

The Wytch Lords’ spells came sudden and violent, pulses of raw light, dark and malevolent, punching into the shields around Denser and the fighting Raven, flaring over their surfaces, fizzing and cracking. They held just long enough. Belphamun rose, his eyes clear evil.

‘Shield down,’ said Ilkar, gasping for breath.

The Unknown and Hirad locked gazes for a heartbeat, the barbarian tired to the base of his being, muscles crying for respite, lungs heaving, heart slamming. He didn’t know how much more he had in him.

‘Do it,’ he said.

The Unknown launched a crazed attack, first dropping to his haunches to hack at Belphamun’s legs, next springing up to chop at the exposed neck, the Wytch Lord following his movements too slowly. To his right, Hirad switched grip, slicing up and left and catching Arumun in the lower jaw, snapping its head back and forcing it off balance. He followed with a reverse sweep which crashed into the following Lord’s face. But the blow from Weyamun came from nowhere.

Belphamun fell but Ystormun and Pamun closed on The Unknown. He swivelled and raised a guard, but as Hirad pitched to the mosaic, he saw the blows fall on the big man. And though he stayed on his feet, it wasn’t enough. The Wytch Lords would cast again.