Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Hirad. ‘All I do know is that we had to find and cast Dawnthief or the Wytch Lords and Wesmen would have swept us aside. You can’t blame us for trying to save our own lives.’

‘And that is as far as you think. The ripples of your actions are no concern as you rest in the glory of your immediate triumph, are they?’

‘We were bound to use all the weapons at our disposal,’ said Hirad a little shortly.

‘This weapon was not at your disposal,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘And it was used inaccurately. You stole it from me.’

‘It was there to be taken,’ replied Hirad. ‘And inaccurate or not, we used it to save Balaia.’

Sha-Kaan stretched his mouth wide and laughed. The sound cracked across the Torn Wastes, setting petrified animals to flight, stopping The Unknown in his tracks and blowing Hirad onto his back. The laughter stopped abruptly, its aftershocks echoing like thunder against cliffs as they smacked against Parve’s buildings.

The great dragon stretched his neck, head travelling slowly up Hirad’s prone form, drool dripping from his half-open maw, until it came to rest over his face.

Hirad pushed himself up on his elbows to look into those eyes that blotted out the light. He quailed, almost able to touch the fangs that could so easily rip out his life, each easily the size of his forearm.

‘Save Balaia,’ repeated Sha-Kaan, voice quiet and cold. ‘You have done nothing of the sort. Instead, you have torn a hole between our worlds and it is a hole the Kaan cannot defend for ever. And when we fail, who will defend you from your total destruction or abject slavery, do you think?’ Sha-Kaan’s head angled up. Hirad followed his gaze to The Unknown and Ilkar, Will and Thraun who now stood a few paces away, scared but not bowed. Hirad smiled, pride swelling his heart.

‘Who are these?’ demanded Sha-Kaan.

‘They’re The Raven, most of it.’

‘Friends?’

‘Yes.’

Sha-Kaan retracted his neck to take them all in.

‘Then listen, Hirad Coldheart and The Raven. Listen closely and I shall tell you what must be done to save us all.’

The Lord Tessaya walked the streets of Understone, a bottle of white grape spirit in his hand. Streets churned by fight, blood and rain, now baking hard under a hot sun which set the mud into grotesque sculptures depicting the imprint of death.

All around him, sounds of celebration echoed from the lush green slopes surrounding the town. A dozen cook-fires crackled and spat, smoke spiralling into the partly cloudy sky. The shouts of sparring and the harsh laughter of storytelling rose above the general level of noise, but some sounds were missing – the screams of the tortured, the weeping of the raped and the pleas of the dying.

Tessaya was pleased. For he had not come to Understone to devastate and destroy. That endgame he reserved for the Colleges. No, he came to Understone to conquer and to rule. The first step to his domination of the whole of Balaia. A domination he could enjoy alone now that the Wytch Lords were gone.

And he would not rule by terror. In a land too large for the hand of fear, that was the way of fools. His way was simple. Control population centres through weight of numbers. Install trusted men to overlord the people and instil their own rules and discipline based on his model. Control gatherings, control talk. Be visible. The iron hand. Leave little hope and prompt no righteous anger.

Tessaya chewed his lip. It was a departure from the traditional Wesmen way but, as far as he saw it, the old way brought nothing but conflict and division. If the Wesmen were to govern Balaia, they had to adapt.

Reaching the end of the village. Tessaya paused a moment and drank from his bottle. Before him ran the trails that burrowed deep into the heart of Eastern Balaia. The arteries down which he would march to victory.

Rising on each side, gentle green slopes rolled away towards the stunning flatlands that were home to Lord Denebre, an old trading partner. There, the farmland was rich, the animals plentiful and the peace complete. For now.

There were decisions to be made but first there were questions to be asked. Tessaya headed left up a slope to where Understone’s defenders had built their barracks, now their prison. Two dozen canvas and wood structures, built for two hundred men. Six of them now housed around three hundred prisoners, leaving plenty of room for his men, those few that wanted shelter. Men and women were separated and the wounded Wesmen lay side by side with Eastern Balaians. Enemies they might be but they deserved honour and the chance to live after choosing to fight over the coward’s route of surrender.

Walking towards the barracks, he noted with pleasure the bearing of the guards. Ramrod straight and placed at even intervals surrounding the prison huts. He nodded at the man who opened the door for him.

‘My Lord,’ said the man, bowing his head in deference.

Inside, the barrack hut was cramped, stuffy and hot. Men sprawled on bunk and floor, some played cards, others spoke in huddles. One thing linked them all. It was the face of defeat, the humiliation of abject surrender.

As Tessaya entered, quiet spread along the length of the hut until all those scared eyes stared at him, waiting for him to deliver their fate. The contempt with which he regarded them was palpable.

‘Time to talk,’ he said in faultless pure-East dialect. One man moved through the throng. He was fat, greying and too short for a warrior. Perhaps in the past he had been powerful but now his mud-stained armour covered nothing more frightening than blubber.

‘I am Kerus, garrison commander of Understone. You may address your questions to me.’

‘And I am Tessaya, Lord of the unified tribes. You will address me as “my Lord”.’ Kerus said nothing, merely inclined his head. Tessaya could see the fear in his eyes. He should have been put out to grass a long time ago. It was indicative of the East’s complacency that they chose a career desk-soldier to command the guard of the most important tactical landmark in the whole of Balaia.

‘I am surprised that you are the spokesman,’ said Tessaya. ‘Is your commander so fearful of us that he still orders you to hide him?’

‘Understone’s defensive general is dead, my Lord,’ said Kerus, surprise edging his tone. ‘I am the most senior officer left alive.’

Tessaya frowned. His intelligence suggested the army had surrendered long before the command post was taken. Perhaps the other rumours were true and Darrick had died leading the line but it seemed unlikely in such a critical engagement.

‘Dead?’

‘At the western end of the pass.’

‘Ah.’ Tessaya’s frown deepened. Something wasn’t right. ‘No matter.’ He would get to the bottom of it shortly. Darrick was a man whose whereabouts he needed to know. ‘Tell me, I’m curious. Was there an incursion into my lands before we retook Understone Pass?’ He knew there had to have been but an idea of numbers would be useful.

‘Why are you asking me, my Lord?’ replied Kerus.

‘Because you are the commanding officer. You are also my prisoner. I would advise against the futility of refusing me.’

‘You know as well as I do that our people penetrated your Wytch Lords’ citadel. That’s why you lost your magic.’ Kerus did his best to sneer.

‘But not this battle, eh Kerus?’ Tessaya’s face dropped to a snarl. ‘That is the second time you have failed to address me correctly. Do not make me count to three.’ He relaxed his stance enough to drink from his bottle, taking in the angry faces in front of him.

‘An impressive move. Though I must confess, I had my reservations about the strength of Parve’s defence. I’m afraid too many senior Shamen felt it a waste of good warriors. How many did you send?’

‘Not many. My Lord.’

‘How many?’

‘Four hundred cavalry, a few Protectors, a handful of mages and The Raven. My Lord.’

Tessaya took it all in, quietly assimilating the numbers and knowing that they should have been far short of enough to trouble Parve’s defence, let alone the Wytch Lords. He made exaggerated assumptions about the power of the mage contingent and still couldn’t make it add up. A nagging worry edged at his mind. He’d seen the power of the spell that had taken Understone Pass, the water magic that had obliterated so many of his kinsmen. Had they used something equally appalling or even worse to destroy the Wytch Lords?

He shuddered inside. Rumours of an attempt to recover a spell of legendary power, the spell the Shamen called ‘Tia-fere’, Nightfall, had cast doubt over the sense of the invasion three months before. But surely if the spell had been recovered, he wouldn’t be standing here.

‘The Raven.’ Tessaya mulled the name over. Good warriors. Never to be underestimated as it seemed they had been by the Wytch Lords and their council of fawning Shamen.

‘Why did The Raven travel to Parve?’ he asked.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Kerus wore his slightly smug expression once more. ‘They carried with them the means to destroy your Masters. It is also obvious that they succeeded. My Lord.’

Tessaya wasn’t sure the probable destruction of the Wytch Lords bothered him. All he knew was that the Shamen, having lost their fire, were once again in their proper place, occupying the shadows behind the tribal Lords and warriors.

What did worry him was the fact that a few hundred men and mages had penetrated to the very heart of Wesmen faith. An act that had to take a good deal of tactical skill, power and bravery to succeed. A chill stole across Tessaya’s back as events started to fall into place. The rumours started to make sense – the Shadow Company patrolling the highlands, the dread force marauding south of Parve and the horsemen who never ceased to ride. It all happened after the water attack in the pass. The chill deepened. Only one man would have the audacity to believe he could reach Parve with a few hundred men.

‘Who was the Commander who died at the pass?’ he demanded.

‘Neneth. My Lord.’

‘And the leader of the cavalry was Darrick.’

‘Aye, my Lord. And he’ll be back, rely on that.’

Kerus’ words haunted Tessaya all the way down Understone’s main street.

Chapter 3

Barrass was enjoying a moment of happiness, an oasis in the desert of his hopelessness, when the Wesmen made the decisive break through Julatsa’s border defences.

To his eye, there was nothing more heartwarming than to see the sun rise above the Tower of the College of Julatsa. To see the darkness flee from every corner of every building, to see light sparkling from the pinnacle of each roof and then be able to look west towards Triverne Lake and see the birthplace of Balaian magic cast its shimmering pattern on the dark backdrop of the Blackthorne Mountains.

He used to believe that nothing in the world could hurt him while he could see that sight. But then the Wesmen breach shattered the Julatsan lines and he realised that unless the ultimate action was taken, he’d never see it again.

For a short time he watched in horror as the Wesmen spilled into the streets of his city, fighting running battles with the remnants of the city Guard, the spell-casting desultory and ineffective. After the first breach, fractures appeared all along the line until the Wesmen advance was a storm destined to break over the College walls. He could not allow that to happen.

Barras turned to General Kard and saw tears on the senior soldier’s cheeks. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘General,’ he said gently. ‘Let me at least save the College.’ Kard looked at him, registering his words after some delay, his lips moving and his forehead furrowing deeply.

‘It can’t be done.’

‘It can. All I need is your authority.’

‘It is given,’ said Kard immediately. Barras nodded and summoned an aide.

‘Sound the emergency alarm, summon the perimeter guard inside the walls, quadruple the forces at the gates. I am going to the Heart of the Tower and will bring the Council to me. We will begin casting without pause. Don’t delay your actions.’

The aide looked at Barras for a moment, drinking in the words he had clearly never thought to hear.

‘At once, Master Barras.’

Barras stole another glance out over the Tower ramparts, the College walls and the streets of Julatsa. The wave was rising, the panic spreading; the noise was deafening.

Wesmen howled in scent of victory, defenders yelled futile rallying cries and ordinary men and women ran for their lives. As the alarms sounded, discordant bells clamouring for attention, the Julatsan population turned and ran for the College gates.

Barras mouthed a silent apology and prayer to all those who would remain outside to die. ‘Come on, Kard. Best you don’t see this.’

‘See what?’

‘We’re deploying the DemonShroud.’ He strode to the door of the Tower, which was opened by an attendant, and swept through, taking the stairs down two at a time, displaying an agility that belied his advanced years.

With Kard puffing along behind him, he reached the Heart of the Tower to join the Council, taking his place in the circle barely even breathing harder. It was something else Kard wouldn’t understand. A mage had to be fit, no matter the age. A strong cardiovascular system was critical for casting and for mana stamina recovery.

‘Will you guard the door, General Kard?’ Barras asked.

‘It would be an honour,’ said the General, who had stopped at the door, the force of the mana inside the Heart making him uneasy though he could see nothing of it. He bowed to the Council and closed the door. His presence would ensure there were no interruptions.

The Heart of the Tower of Julatsa was a chamber set at ground level, its eight smoothed greystone segments building to a point twice a man’s height above the exact centre of a helical floor pattern. A single line of stone flags spiralled inward from the door to the Heart, disappearing in its centre. And from that point burned the mana light, a candle flame-sized teardrop which never wavered and cast no glow despite its yellow colour. Because only a mage could see it. To a non-mage, there was no teardrop at all.

The other seven members of the Council nodded to Barras in turn as he took up his position among them, each one standing flush with one greystone wall segment. When Kard closed the door, the darkness was complete.

Barras could feel the nervousness of the Council, members young and old. It was hardly surprising. DemonShroud was Julatsa’s most difficult, dangerous and powerful spell. Only twice had it been cast before, both times well before any of the current Council had been born, and both times at moments of extreme danger for the College of Julatsa.

All knew the import of their intended casting. All had prepared themselves for the potential eventuality of its casting when the Wesmen attack began. All were aware that only seven of them would step from the Heart when it was done. None knew who would be chosen.

‘Shall we have light for our casting?’ the High Mage asked of the Council. The traditional words came from directly opposite Barras. One by one, the Council replied.

‘Aye, light for us to see one another and to gain strength from the seeing.’

‘My mage, Barras, who called us to the Heart, bring light to us,’ said the High Mage.

‘It will be done,’ replied Barras. He prepared the shape for a LightGlobe, as he knew he would have to. It was a simple shape, a static hemisphere, drawn quickly from the mana channelling into the Heart. The expenditure of effort was minimal and Barras deployed the LightGlobe just above the mana candle, its gentle light banishing shadows and illuminating the Council.

Barras took them in with a slow sweep of his head, bowing to each member, drinking in their expressions and knowing that he would never see one of them again, and that it might be him taken by the demons.

To his left, Endorr, the junior. A Council member only fully fledged seven weeks before at the High Chamber. A great talent, Endorr was short, ugly and powerful. It would be a pity to lose him.

Working around the circle, he took in Vilif, the ancient secretary to the Council, stooped, hairless and close to his time. Seldane, one of two females on the council, late middle-aged, grey-haired and sour. Kerela, the High Mage, a close personal friend and fellow elf. They could ill afford to lose her at a time like this. Tall, dark and proud, Kerela led the Council with a steel determination respected by the entire College. Deale, another elf, ageing and given to rash talk. His was a face full of fear, his long features drawn and pale. Cordolan, middle-aged, portly and jovial. His balding pate showed sweat in the light of the Globe and his jowls held a heaviness. He could do with more exercise; his stamina would otherwise suffer.

And finally, to Barras’ immediate right, Torvis. Old, impetuous, energetic, wrinkled and very tall. A quite wonderful man.

‘Shall we begin?’ The High Mage brought them all around. ‘I thank you, Barras, for your gift of light.’ And there, the normal formalities ended.

‘Members of the Julatsan Council,’ said Kerela. ‘We are gathered because a critical threat exists to our College. Unless our proposed action is taken, it is certain that the College will fall. Do any of the Council disagree with that interpretation?’

Silence.

‘Knowing the risks involved in the deployment of the DemonShroud, do any of the Council wish to remain outside the Heart during the casting?’

From Barras’ right, Torvis chuckled, his irreverence lifting the mana-laden tension temporarily.

‘Kerela, really,’ he said, his voice like dried leaves underfoot. ‘By the time we have spoken all our words of caution, the Shamen will be in here with us to assist our casting. No one is leaving, you know it.’

Kerela frowned but her eyes sparkled with passing humour. Barras nodded his agreement.

‘Torvis is anxious to join a new dimension,’ he said. ‘We should begin at once.’

‘I had to offer the chance,’ said Kerela.

‘I know,’ said Barras. ‘We all know.’ He smiled. ‘Lead us, Kerela.’

The High Mage breathed deep, taking in the Council once more.

‘To you who sacrifices their life to save this College and the magics of Julatsa, may you quickly find peace and the souls of your loved ones.’ She paused. ‘Follow my words closely. Do not deviate from my instructions. Let nothing but my voice deflect you from your concentration. Now.’ And her tone hardened, taking on total authority. ‘Place your palms on the greystone behind you and accept the mana spectrum into your eyes.’

Barras pressed his hands to the cool stone segment behind him and moved his vision to focus on the mana flowing all around him. The sight was at once breathtaking and frightening.

The Heart of the Tower of Julatsa was a mana reservoir, the shape and substance of its walls drawing the fuel of magic within its boundaries and keeping it there. The strongest reflectors were the eight stone wall-segments themselves and the mana rolled up their faces to the apex of the Heart. Barras traced the flow, the eight streams of mana coming together before plunging in a single column through the centre of the Heart and the flagged stone floor.

Below his feet, Barras knew, the exact mirror image of the room in which the Council stood completed the circuit of power. Placing his hands on the stone brought Barras into that circuit.

Each member of the Council started or gasped as the mana channelled through them, increasing pulses, clearing minds for intense concentration and charging every muscle to the highest state of potential for action.

‘Breathe the mana.’ Kerela’s voice, strong and clear, sounded through the Heart. ‘Understand its flow. Enjoy its power. Know its potential. Speak your name when you are ready to begin the summoning.’

One by one, the Council members spoke their names, Barras’ voice confident and loud, Torvis’ with a touch of impatience, Deale’s quiet and scared.

‘Very well,’ said Kerela. ‘We will open the path and summon the Shroud Master. Be prepared for his appearance. Construct the circle.’

Eight voices intoned quietly, speaking the words that would shape the mana and begin the summoning. Barras’ heart beat faster, his hands pressed harder against the greystone, his words, ancient and powerful, rolled around his mouth like oil in a drum, spilling from his lips in a single unbroken stream.

The flow of the mana changed. At first, gentle tugging distorted the shape of its course up the wall segments. More urgent pulls followed before, with a suddenness that stole a heartbeat, the mana flow snapped away from the walls and was driven, not by nature and stone but by mages. Residual flow continued to circulate but, at eye-level, a circle of mana was established, maintained by all eight senior mages, a hand’s breadth wide, solid yellow and absolutely still.

‘Excellent,’ murmured Kerela, her voice quieter now, her concentration completely on the spell in preparation. ‘We have totality. Now, draw the shape to a column that kisses the stone at our feet.’

Julatsa’s Mage Council took their hands from the wall behind them and let their fingertips enter the mana circle. To Barras, it was a feeling like touching soft cloth, delicate and beautiful. As he drew his hands down in exact synchronicity with his fellow mages, forming the flawless cylindrical shape with his mind as much as with his hands’ heightened touch sense, Barras rolled one word over in his mind. ‘Gently. Gently.’

To tear the cylinder would jeopardise not only the spell but the health of the Council. This far into the casting, headaches, bleeding from the ears and temporary blindness were real risks of any mistake or backfire.

But mages were elected to the Julatsan Council for their skill and, with all mages finishing in a crouched position, the column was complete and perfect in less than a hundred beats of Barras’ heart.

‘Excellent,’ breathed Kerela. ‘Is everybody secure?’ No one indicated otherwise. ‘Endorr, Seldane, Deale, Torvis. You will anchor the column. On my signal we others will withdraw. Do not resist the extra burden, keep your minds open.’ She paused. ‘On my count. Withdrawing in three, two, one . . .’ Barras, Vilif, Kerela and Cordolan withdrew their hands and stood up. Barras smiled as he saw Endorr accept the rising mana stamina drain with a puff of his cheeks and nothing more. The old elf had to resist an urge to pat the young mage on his shoulder. He really was very accomplished for his age.

The four anchoring mages steadied themselves. Until the completion of the summoning, they would focus all their energies on maintaining the mana column in its perfect state. Should it breach before the summoning was complete, the forces unleashed would rip the Heart to pieces.

Kerela gazed briefly around Julatsa’s central chamber, nodding in admiration.

‘We are a strong Council,’ she said. ‘Our inevitable weakening is a tragedy for Julatsa.’ She sighed and pressed her hands together. ‘Come. Stand for the summoning. Barras, you will keep the portal open.’ Barras nodded, disappointed but not surprised at the relief he felt. As the portal guard, the demons could not take him nor risk being trapped in the killing air of Balaia.

The four mages stepped right up to the mana column, their faces scant inches from its still surface. Each mage stared directly ahead into the eyes of the mage opposite, pairing for strength. Kerela opened her mouth to speak.

‘Though I say the words, we shall all create the shape. Lend me your strength.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Heilara diun thar.’ The temperature in the room dipped. Kerela’s next words steamed from her lips. ‘Heilera diun thar, mext heiron duin thar.’ The quartet of mages plucked more mana from the air, forming a tight disc of swirling yellow shot through with blue flecks.

The disc hovered above the cylinder, spinning fast, its edges blurred.

‘Slowly,’ said Kerela. ‘Draw it gently inside the cylinder.’ With their noses touching the perfect yellow column, the disc-mages moved the disc inside, feeling its edge stir the calm of the anchored mana shape as it descended.

‘Heilera, duin, scorthos erida,’ intoned Kerela. The blue in the disc gained in intensity, deep pulses flaring along the inside of the column, shuddering the anchoring mages. Their grip remained firm.

The disc descended, Barras and the three controllers struggling to keep it horizontal and maintain its crawling pace against a force that sucked from below and gained in strength: the demons knew they were coming.

‘Steady,’ urged Kerela, her voice distant with concentration. ‘Steady. Cordolan, you are ragged.’ The disc, which had wobbled minutely, steadied immediately, the flaring inside the column violent as it dropped still further, crossing the mana candle, caressing the stone floor.

‘Barras, be ready,’ said Kerela. ‘Heilera, senduin, scorthonere an estolan.’ A black dot appeared in the centre of the disc, widening quickly. Blue mana light flowed out, expanding as the hole grew. With a snap, the disc became a thin circle of Julatsan mana, containing a flow of ferocious blue light which hammered at the apex of the Heart and spilled down the greystone segments. Whispering filled the air, taunts, demands, gentle offers laced with evil, crowding the mages with their sound. The words picked at their courage, the susurrant tone leaching through their bodies, setting skin crawling, heads spinning and drying mouths. The door to the demon dimension was open.

‘Barras, are you steady?’ asked the High Mage. Barras nodded, unable to speak. Every muscle in his body was taut, his brain felt as if it heaved in his skull, yet he knew he could maintain the door indefinitely. The forces trying to smash away his control and flood the Heart were not strong enough. His confidence escalated, his muscles began to relax, the pressure in his head easing. He smiled.

‘Yes, Kerela, I am steady. Call the Shroud Master.’

‘Aye,’ said Kerela. ‘Cordolan, Vilif, step away from the column. This is my task alone.’ The High Mage plunged her head into and through the column, burying her face in the blue demon light. Barras saw her features strain, leaving her face skull-like in the mage light. The old elven mage held the door still. Not for Julatsa but for his High Mage, for Kerela.

For her part, Julatsa’s elder mage stared full into the face of the demon gale, and with her voice as strong as the moment she had begun the spell, she spoke.

‘Heilera, duis . . . I, Kerela, High Mage of the Julatsan Council of Balaia, call you, Heila, Great One and Shroud Master. Come to me, hear our request and state your price.’

For a time, there was nothing. The whispering was unchanged, ignoring the summoning High Mage.

‘Hear me,’ said Kerela. ‘Heila, hear me.’

Abruptly, the whispering ceased.

‘I hear.’ The voice, warm and friendly, attacked the air of the Heart. The Council members started but the anchor held firm. So did the gateway.

And then He was there. Alone. Floating above the candle and rotating slowly, legs crossed, arms clasped and in his lap. And with his appearance, the column evaporated, the anchor mages waking from their reverie of concentration as the mana flow rebuilt along its natural lines.

Only Kerela stood firm, within touching distance of the Demon Shroud Master.

‘Your presence is welcome,’ she said.

‘Hardly,’ replied Heila. ‘Hardly.’ And he seemed genuinely sorry to be in their company.

Barras backed away but kept his mind firmly focused on the dimension door. To let it close would be a disaster. Before Heila’s inevitable death in an alien dimension, he could tear their souls to shreds. Around Barras, not a breath was drawn from the Council who, all but Kerela, had retreated to their wall segments. As if distance would make any difference.

In the centre of the Heart, floated the demon and the incomprehensible part of it was that, to Barras, the appearance and bearing had no evil about it. Heila was a little over four feet tall, his naked humanoid body coloured a gentle deep blue. His head was bald, embossed with pulsing veins and around his cheeks, upper lip, chin and neck, sprouted a carefully tended beard. His eyes, small and sunken, were black and as he turned past Barras and caught the mage’s eye, the elf saw all the malice they contained.

Heila’s motion stopped when he faced Kerela. He frowned, brows darting in to give his face a pinched, angry look.

‘I was resting,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you require and we will discuss a price.’

Barras shivered inwardly. That price would be the soul of one of the Council for as long as Heila wanted it.

Kerela met Heila’s eyes without flinching.

‘Our College is at risk from invasion. The enemy must not breach our walls. We require a Shroud to encircle the walls, protecting those inside and taking everyone who dares touch it. The Shroud must encompass the principal mana flow of the College which must not be lost.’

‘And for how long will this Shroud be needed?’ asked Heila.

‘Until the siege is lifted. Several weeks. We cannot be definite.’

Heila raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Well, well.’ His rotating motion began again, his bleak eyes searching deep into the faces of the Council.

‘There is a price,’ said the demon. ‘You understand our energies are depleted by the maintenance of a Shroud. We must have fuel to replenish ourselves.’

Barras felt a cold trickle through his body. Human life reduced to fuel for a demonic conjuration. It was barbaric, hideous. It was also Julatsa’s only choice. Heila had stopped and was looking at him. He fought briefly and successfully to maintain his concentration on the portal.

‘And you are the lucky one,’ said Heila. ‘I cannot touch you. Shame. Your elven soul would have been my choice.’

‘We are none of us lucky.’ Barras’ calm voice was no reflection of his inner bearing. ‘Today, we will all lose people we know. Choose and begone.’

Heila smiled, his body snapped round to face the High Mage.

‘You, Kerela, are the chosen. You will fuel the Shroud your College so desperately needs.’ There was a hiss of indrawn breath. No demon should take the High Mage. It was like felling the tree before its fruit had grown. But Kerela just smiled.