Текст книги "The Raven Collection"

Автор книги: James Barclay

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Текущая страница: 65 (всего у книги 235 страниц)

Behind him, the army ran down towards the forest, breaking its borders. Orders rang out, centiles switched directions and from the morass came order as each found its feet and space from its adjacent centiles. A wall half-bricked and a temptation surely too much for the Wesmen to ignore.

Darrick would not be disappointed.

Ahead of him, the leading Wesmen crested a rise, bellowing out cries as they surveyed the fragmented army below. For a while they gathered, like a dark stain spreading on the near horizon, then a blast from a hundred horns sent them flooding down on the Balaians, their battle cries and chants splitting the air, Tessaya plainly visible at the centre.

For a moment, Darrick considered attacking him but, though he was in the front line, he would be very well defended. And Darrick had better things to do than commit suicide. He took his twin centile and ran for Grethern, the first arrows of the Wesmen falling short.

‘Stand ready!’ he shouted, seeing his men ranked inside the confines of the forest. ‘Fall back three paces. Make them break stride. Mages, fill those gaps.’

The orders were relayed through the forest as the Wesmen swept towards them, no more than half a minute behind. Arrows skipped and snapped against trees and branches, howls and taunts echoing darkly into the depths of the forest. Darrick turned, drew a line in the leaf mould in front of him, his men forming around and behind him.

The sky, brooding and grey, spilled rain, and the wind whipped up beneath the cloud, whistling through the trees. Somewhere, Izack and his men raced to the aid of the Protectors. Darrick watched the Wesmen pour on towards the forest, so far taking the bait laid for them. But the Balaians were outnumbered and would have to work very hard to remain unbroken. It was going to be a long afternoon.

Chapter 34

Senedai brooded over the reports from his army surrounding the pitifully small band of masked warriors defending the Septern Manse and its gateway to the land of the dragons. As his warriors tired, the enemy seemed to grow in strength. Their movement was smooth, their fighting ordered, like nothing he had ever seen. He knew there was magic involved but he couldn’t see where. There was no mage, of that he was now certain.

Yet that hardly mattered. What mattered was what was before his eyes. The bodies of his men covered the ground, in places so thickly that the dead and injured had to be dragged away through the legs of the fighting front line to give them solid ground. And as the afternoon wore on, with the rain increasing in intensity hour by hour, Senedai’s desperation increased with it. The enemy left no gaps, the numbers of their dead could be counted on the fingers and toes of a single man; and even though his warriors had injured a good many, they simply melted back from the battle to bind their wounds while others took their place.

Their strength and endurance were extraordinary, their courage something Senedai could admire. But his failure to overwhelm them despite massive odds in his favour gnawed at his confidence and at the belief of his men. It should have been a quick victory and yet, with the afternoon waning, he was now faced with returning to his camp as night fell, to face another day of humiliation.

He could force his warriors to fight on by fire and moonlight but somehow those masks would be even more terrifying in shadow. And to fight at night was not the Wesman way, though he had done so at Julatsa. It displeased the spirits. He growled, silently cursed Tessaya’s failure to appear, called up more reserves and ordered another push.

Fire bloomed to Darrick’s right, the injured Wesmen shrieking in pain, the burning trees casting stark light on the confused battle scene. As the General had hoped, the Wesmen line had been forced to slow and break by the density of trees and the early exchanges had been even as he had foreseen. And with his mages calling FlameOrb, HellFire and IceWind from the mana, the Wesmen charge was blunted.

Now, though, the tactics had changed, Tessaya had broken off the frontal attack, sending a sizeable force towards the Balaian encampment and concentrating on an area of Grethern perhaps seventy yards wide, daring his enemy to close ranks. So far, it was a temptation Darrick had been able to resist. He’d quickly reorganised mage teams to prevent flanking and keep the Wesmen line ahead thin, left four centiles in reserve to provide emergency cover and brought in all of his mage assassins to maraud outside the flanks.

A barrage of metal on metal had him moving smartly forwards. Ahead, the Wesmen had forced a triple centile back and were pushing their advantage to the limit. Calling reinforcements to him, Darrick raced in from his overseeing position, too late to save a knot of Balaian swordsmen and mages, caught against a wall of trees and cut to pieces by triumphant Wesmen.

‘I want fire behind the front line! First centile right flank, attack at will!’ roared Darrick as he crashed into the battle. With veteran swordsmen either side of him and a trio of mages behind, he waded into the Wesmen line, hundreds strong, his blade flashing down on a defensively placed axe. ‘Second centile, mage protection!’ The axe was knocked aside and Darrick followed up with a boot to the abdomen and a reverse sword strike to the bowed head.

Left and right, Wesmen were cut down before the main body reacted to the attack. Darrick blocked a thrust with a spear, driving his free forearm into the face of his attacker, splitting his lips and nose. He trod on the spear tip before the Wesman could pick it up and drove his sword through the undefended midriff. Behind the fighting line, howls abruptly cut off, the clatter of metal and the unmistakable sound of shattering ice told of an IceWind ploughing its awful course. Further back, HellFire smashed in from the sky. Bodies flew, the explosion of spell on soul battered at the ears and a tattered arm flopped down next to Darrick.

In front of him, his next opponent quailed at the sight and hesitated fatally. Darrick didn’t pause and the Wesman was chopped through the side to his spine, the Balaian General feeling his sword score bone, the blood surging on to the grass.

The Wesmen began to back off. Darrick held his line. They had no need to chase and, with the afternoon light fading quickly in the shrouded forest, they didn’t have to hold out too much longer.

We tire. It is understood. Light fades. Lower right quadrant, block, axe. They will not pursue the attack after dusk. Be strong. Strike left, pace back. Rest. Hold the line. Our Given requires it. There will be no failure.

Aeb’s limbs protested but he refused to allow the fatigue to show. The Wesmen were ragged. It had been a hard day and their organisation was lacking, their warriors not cycled for maximum efficiency. Yet there were many thousands of them and, despite their lack of victory, still they came on. It was less than two hours until full night and already, with the sky dull and grey, the light was fading fast.

The gloom made no difference to Aeb and his brothers. They had no need of illumination to see the fight. Aeb chopped downwards, crashing his axe through the shoulder of a tiring Wesman, his blade already positioned to block the blow he knew was coming in from his upper left.

Beside him, a Wesman broke the guard of Oln. The Protector took a savage cut to his right thigh, the enemy axe wrenched clear with a gout of flesh. Oln staggered, unable to maintain balance.

Crouch.

Aeb backhanded his axe across the space left open by Oln and the Wesman who had so recently tasted victory, tasted violent death instead.

Withdraw. Aeb covers.

Oln half fell backwards. He would not fight again unless the brethren survived to give him strength. Aeb shattered a Wesman skull with the pommel of his blade and turned to his next opponent, mind full of the words of his brothers. They had lost thirty men this day and another fifty were unable to fight on. They would survive the day but would not take another. Aeb had to assume it would be enough.

Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon Tribes, broke from the forest, axe dripping blood, to take quick reports. The Easterners fought a guerrilla action that he could not fathom, surely having enough strength to meet them head on. The Wesmen met them on a broad front in the trees and on a shorter side across the trail, where the fighting had ebbed and flowed, the Easterners unwilling to move up to force home the advantage they gained early on. It was as if they were waiting for something but Tessaya could not think what. There were no reinforcements coming, of that he was certain.

He shook his head and stared up at the quickly darkening sky. Rain fell on his face and pattered on the ground as it had done almost all day. Away in the forest, fires burned in half a dozen places and he could feel the heat of the closest though he knew it would not last. The rain let nothing last.

His men, bloody and brave, had torn away at the Easterners throughout the afternoon, never quite breaking through and never drawing them on to open ground. But the enemy had put up stout resistance and their damned magic made up so much for their apparent lack of numbers.

‘What is it they are guarding?’ Arnoan, ever at his side, asked the question Tessaya had never asked himself.

‘Guarding?’ He frowned, and the ice cascaded down his back as realisation snapped through his body. ‘How long have we been fighting?’

‘Perhaps three hours, my Lord.’

‘I am a fool,’ he muttered, then raised his voice to a roar. ‘Paleon! Disengage! Revion! Hold position! Taranon! Push eastern flank!’ He turned to Arnoan, snatching at the old man’s collar, drawing his face close. ‘Find Adesellere; he’s in charge here. He is not to let them after us.’

‘What is it, my Lord?’

‘Don’t you see? Are you blind? Darrick’s sent men south to drive around while he occupies us. He’s guarding an army that’s heading for Senedai. Now go.’

Tessaya sprinted back towards his camp, calling his tribes towards him. They were the only people he could trust now. Taomi had failed and his Liandon Tribes were shattered by Blackthorne. He wasn’t even worth a defensive command. Once again, the Paleon held the fortunes of the Wesmen and if he had to run all night to catch the Easterners, that is exactly what he would do.

Darrick lashed a kick into a Wesman knee, felt the bone crumple, hurdled the man whose axe had fallen useless from his hands and ran at the fleeing enemy. Shouts had echoed throughout the battlefield and the Wesmen had pulled away from his section entirely. Their move back towards their own camp had the hallmark of a phased retreat and for a second he was happy to let them go.

But the weight of enemy left in the centre of the line and flooding across the front of the forest to block a chase Tessaya must know they wouldn’t mount told a different story.

Darrick stopped his charge and called his twin centile, what was left of it, to a halt.

‘He’s worked us out,’ he said to his Lieutenant. ‘We need a tactical withdrawal all the way back to the camp. I think they’ll let us go. Find me our best Communion mage. I have to get through to Izack.’

‘Sir.’ The Lieutenant set off at a run, ducking back into the depths of the forest.

All around Darrick, the fighting was still fierce. FlameOrbs splashed through an area of dense brush to his left, scattering the Wesmen attackers. From either side of the fire, Balaian soldiers poured onto the stunned enemy, swords rising and falling, their dull thuds and occasional clashes telling where they bit. Right, a Wesmen surge had pushed back an isolated centile. As Darrick watched, a mage was felled by an arrow, depriving them of key attack.

‘To me!’ yelled Darrick, leaping across the charred branch from a fallen tree, his men at his heels. ‘FlameOrb the back of the line, we’ll take the flank.’ He called as he ran.

The Wesmen saw and heard them coming. Arrows whipped through the boughs, one flicking Darrick’s hair on its way to bury itself in the eye of a man behind him.

‘I need those archers down!’ Darrick thudded into the fray, his sword clashing with a Wesmen axe, sparks flying into the damp air. The General rotated his sword two-handed, loosening his enemy’s grip, forced his weapon to the ground, leaned in and butted the man in the face. Blood surged from his nose and he staggered back. Darrick swept his blade up, knocked aside the half-made block and followed up with a straight thrust to the throat.

Over his head, FlameOrbs sailed into the back of the line, splashing down and spreading mayhem, destroying man and brush alike and putting the shadows to flight. The unearthly orange flame licked at everything within its compass, sticking to fur and leaf, eating into it until beaten out by flat of axe or leather gauntlet.

The beleaguered centile found renewed strength, stepping forward to take the attack to the Wesmen. To Darrick’s left and right, the strikes went in with terrific ferocity, forcing the Wesmen into a desperate defence. Another FlameOrb dropped among them, Darrick split a skull, spraying gore and brain over his victim’s companions and the Wesmen broke and ran.

‘Leave them,’ ordered Darrick. He turned to his centile Captain. ‘Stay here, keep this flank free then withdraw slowly at your discretion. Don’t chase anyone and keep a HardShield up.’

‘General.’ The man nodded and swung round to issue orders. Darrick ran back to the centre of the now much subdued fighting.

‘Lieutenant! Where is my mage?’

Hirad’s dreams were troubled. Time and again, he awoke with a sense of falling, his heart hammering in his chest and painfully in his throat. And while he slept . . .

Adrift in a vast sea of nothing. Below him, fire laced the land. Calls of pain and anguish flooded his mind and a sense of desperation suffused his wracked body.

He was alone. Last and lost.

Around him, the air was empty. No stars shone though it was dark, no cloud filled the sky. The only light flickered far below. And down there it was dead. He had nowhere to go.

To stay above was to die. So was to move down.

He fell.

‘Dreaming again, Hirad?’ asked Ilkar from nearby. Night was full, warm and very quiet.

Hirad nodded and sat up. ‘Emptiness,’ he said. ‘I felt I was flying but nothing else was alive.’

‘Let’s hope it’s not prophetic in any way,’ said the elf. ‘We’re all anxious, Hirad. You’re not alone in not sleeping.’ Ilkar indicated himself. ‘Probably best you don’t dream, eh?’

Hirad nodded again. ‘Easy to say, hard to do. Anyway, I don’t think I am. I think it’s Sha-Kaan’s dream.’

He lay back down, smiling inside at Ilkar’s raised eyebrows. This time, the Great Kaan soothed his mind into deep, dreamless sleep.

‘Damn it, I didn’t think he’d tumble us. At least not so soon,’ said Darrick.

Blackthorne smiled and leaned back in his chair. ‘I told you he wasn’t stupid,’ he said.

The command tent was a beacon of light in a darkening camp in which Darrick had forbidden all but vital fire light to give the Wesmen as little sight of them as possible. Dusk was upon them, the Balaians had been allowed to withdraw and an uneasy calm had settled over the camp.

The Wesmen had stationed a hefty presence a respectful distance from their borders and were clearly unwilling to move in, fearful without their Lord to drive them.

Darrick had sent mages out to check the surrounding numbers. The Wesmen covered the main trail, the forest and crags with squads and scouts but had chosen not to encircle the Balaians. Their remit was clear enough.

The only good news was that Izack had not planned on stopping until within striking distance of Senedai’s forces. He would however, have to move to a different position than planned in an effort to avoid Tessaya.

‘How many will he take with him?’ asked Darrick.

‘Well,’ said Blackthorne. ‘From your reports, Tessaya was separating his forces along tribal lines. The Paleon are numerous though they’ll have taken casualties both in the battle for Understone and today. Even so, if he takes them all, it could be as many as four thousand.’

Darrick gaped and his body felt hot. ‘Izack’ll be slaughtered.’

‘Not unless Tessaya finds him,’ reasoned Gresse.

‘He won’t be hard to spot once he starts fighting,’ said Darrick grimly. He passed a hand over his face, seeing his plan collapse. ‘What a shambles. We can’t waste time taking them on here, there’s no point. Look . . . How dense is the cover crag-side?’ He looked over to where a pair of his mage assassins awaited his next order.

‘Not as dense as in the forest, sir,’ said one, scratching at two days’ growth of stubble. ‘We could clear it a little.’ He smiled slightly.

‘You’d have to clear it a lot to make a difference to our route,’ Darrick said, seeing the man get his train of thought.

‘There are eight of us,’ said the assassin. ‘Anything is possible. They don’t have cross-reporting, they are merely expected to shout if they see anything.’

‘Make them unable to shout, will you?’ asked Darrick.

The assassin nodded. ‘We will prepare immediately.’ He gestured his companion to follow him from the tent.

Darrick turned back to find the eyes of the Barons and his surviving centile Captains wide on him. He shrugged.

‘What choice do we really have?’ He spread his arms wide, shrugging.

‘They will see us and they will follow us,’ said Gresse. ‘It can’t work.’

Darrick shook his head. ‘If we all trooped out together, yes. But we won’t. Here is what I want done. I want every able-bodied man brought to the rear of the camp. No injured will be coming. I need a token presence to remain here, highly visible. I suggest the cavalry.

‘We will walk a mile back down the trail before turning up into the crags, using the mages to assess threat ahead. We will run all night if we have to but I will not let Izack die uselessly.’

‘And what about the wounded and those you leave behind?’ asked Blackthorne. ‘Even should you succeed in this hare-brained scheme, when dawn breaks they will be overwhelmed and suffer the fate you so wish Izack to avoid.’ His voice, low and stern, was tinged with anger.

Darrick smiled, hoping to defuse it. ‘There’s more. Once the runners are away, I need volunteers to help the injured to move out of the camp and hide elsewhere.’ He stared squarely at the two Barons.

‘And the visible force?’ asked Gresse.

‘When the Wesmen work it out and rush in, ride like the wind.’ His smile broadened as he saw Gresse’s eyes sparkle with the thought of it all. ‘Well? What do you think? If we pull this off, we can make a real difference, maybe even turn the tide and give The Raven the time they need.’ He looked around the assembled command team. ‘Are you with me?’

To a man, his Captains nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Baron Blackthorne?’

‘A nursemaid to the sick, eh?’

‘I prefer to see it as a defender of the helpless,’ said Darrick. ‘Far more glory in that, I think. Baron Gresse?’

‘Young man, you are an outrageous risk-taker. Outrageous enough to win. I’ll have the horses ready as dawn cracks the sky.’

Darrick clapped his hands together, feeling the excitement surge within him, banishing the aches and tiredness of the afternoon’s fighting. ‘Then let’s get moving, because we really don’t have the time to waste.’

Chapter 35

Fires were alight all across the Broodlands when Hirad awoke, rested but still tired. He rolled over and sat up, joining The Raven in complete bemusement at what he saw.

The fires were strung, three dozen strong, along the banks of the river, casting an eerie yellow light that reflected from the mist, covering the Broodlands in pale luminescence.

And what the light showed was thousands of Vestare in groups and teams, some examining weapons and stitching armour but most tending to the hundreds of dragons covering every inch of free space. Vestare fussed about necks, wings, heads and talons, applying balms, singing songs and saying prayers to the Skies for Brood victory. They were tiny against the immense bodies of the Kaan, who stretched out their full lengths, many reaching well in excess of one hundred feet, their hulking bodies towering sometimes as much as fifteen feet. Great heads rested on the ground, some with jaws wide while the Vestare crawled in to spread their protective and healing creams on the flame ducts.

The sense of size was awe-inspiring and The Raven stared on, eyes roving the massive flanks, the twitching wings bigger than the largest warship sail and the muscled necks that carried those huge skulls.

‘How long has this been going on?’ asked Hirad.

‘It seems like ages,’ said Ilkar. ‘And I cannot believe you slept through it for so long.’

‘Kept that way, I think,’ said Hirad. He nodded in the direction of Wingspread, outside of which Sha-Kaan had just appeared. ‘Come on, he’ll have a few things to say to us.’

‘And I shall have some to say to him,’ said Styliann, striding off, his three disinterested Protectors in his wake.

‘What’s got into him?’ asked Ilkar.

‘He’s been muttering about “organising things better afterwards” ever since he woke up,’ said Denser.

‘And he’s planning on telling this to Sha-Kaan now?’ Hirad looked after the hurrying figure.

‘I expect so.’ Denser shrugged.

‘Mistake,’ said Hirad, heading for Wingspread. ‘Big mistake.’

The set of Styliann’s shoulders told of a no-compromise show-down with the one-hundred-and-twenty-foot Great Kaan who was preparing for the ultimate battle. Hirad knew he’d talk to The Raven because of their immediate role. Aside from that, he would be tended for flight and fight. Nothing else was open to conversation.

Hirad, trotting quickly ahead of the rest of The Raven, caught Styliann before he reached Wingspread.

‘Styliann, I think I should be doing the talking,’ he said. The Xetesk master hardly broke stride to look at him.

‘Ah, Hirad the Dragonene. There are matters of great importance to iron out. Now is a keenly appropriate time. I think I can make myself heard.’

‘Styliann, you don’t understand,’ said Hirad.

The Dark Mage stopped, he and his Protectors surrounding Hirad. ‘Oh, I think I understand very well. And this one-way deal is about to be changed.’

‘What?’ Hirad gasped.

‘Stop him,’ ordered Styliann, his eyes wild. He set off again only this time the Protectors barred Hirad’s path. He tried to push them aside but they wouldn’t yield.

‘Get out of my way,’ said Hirad, anger rising.

Silence.

‘Don’t you get it? Just who is it you’re protecting? Because if you don’t move, it certainly won’t be Styliann, unless you want to guard a smouldering corpse.’ He tried to push past them again, one shoved him back roughly. Hirad’s sword was out in a moment. The Protectors came to ready.

‘Hirad, no.’ The Unknown’s sharp tone stopped him in his tracks. ‘They’ll kill you.’ He was at Hirad’s shoulder. ‘Ile, Rya, Cil, he speaks the truth. Let him pass.’

The Protectors sheathed weapons and stepped aside. Hirad ran through, The Raven behind him, and was quick enough to hear Styliann begin to speak. Vestare fretted around Sha-Kaan’s head. The old dragon had his eyes closed, his neck resting on the ground and his body half in the river. Styliann stood silent for a while, Septern’s texts clutched to his chest, as if summoning the courage to speak.

‘Sha-Kaan,’ he said. He was ignored. ‘Great Kaan, I must be heard.’

Sha-Kaan’s head moved and his eyes opened. He took in Styliann with his cool blue gaze, in a lazy sweep that encompassed The Raven running up behind. He settled on the Xeteskian, his jaws stretching a little.

‘This is not a granted audience,’ said Sha-Kaan, his voice low and sonorous. ‘Leave.’

‘No,’ said Styliann. ‘Make it granted.’

Sha-Kaan’s eyes narrowed and his head shot forwards, bowling two Vestare from their feet. His snout all but touched Styliann’s waist. ‘Never presume to speak to me in that manner,’ growled the Great Kaan. ‘You are not, and never will be, my Dragonene.’

‘My tone was not meant to offend,’ said Styliann. ‘But there is little time and—’

‘I must prepare. Leave.’

‘—there is a chance the spell will not be cast,’ continued Styliann smoothly.

That stopped them all. Sha-Kaan drew back his head sharply, his eyes blinking slowly, breath hissing into his cavernous lungs. Hirad turned and shot Denser and Ilkar a glance. Both shrugged their ignorance while Erienne frowned deeply, mouth moving wordlessly. Sha-Kaan grabbed Hirad’s attention with a sharp mind-jab.

‘How is this possible?’ he demanded.

‘Great Kaan, I have no idea. It is not a problem raised by The Raven’s mages,’ said Hirad.

‘I understood there to be a certain casting but that there were risks as to its outcome.’ Sha-Kaan’s voice was flat, cold and very angry. Hirad shuddered. It was Styliann who spoke.

‘That is indeed the case. It is merely that there is a feeling that Balaia needs assurances of your continued support and future aid in legitimate struggle.’ The air temperature seemed to cool. Sha-Kaan moved his head back in close to Styliann.

‘Assurances,’ he said.

Hirad noticed the Vestare had backed away from the dragon’s neck and head. He turned to The Raven and muttered:

‘Just in case. Give yourselves room. That goes for your Protectors too, Unknown.’

‘You don’t think—’ began Denser.

Hirad shook his head. ‘I would doubt it but, you know . . . Let me try and sort this out, all right?’ He walked briskly up to stand beside Sha-Kaan’s head, facing Styliann, whose face was set stubborn.

‘I feel there must have been a misunderstanding, Great Kaan,’ he said, feeling the dragon’s ire hot in his mind.

‘Let us hope so,’ replied Sha-Kaan. There was menace in his voice that Styliann clearly did not read.

‘No misunderstanding,’ he said, a slight smile on his face.

‘Styliann, I’m warning you to back off. This is not the time,’ said Hirad, hand back on the hilt of his sword.

‘Hm.’ Styliann lifted a finger, apparently framing his next words. ‘I realise that time is of the essence so let me make myself very clear.’ His eyes locked with Sha-Kaan’s. ‘I take it, your honour is not in question.’

‘I am a Kaan dragon,’ came the reply.

‘Exactly. Here is what will happen. You, the Kaan, will agree to help me regain my College. You will also help me in negotiating treaties with the Wesmen and the other Colleges. If you do not, I fear I will be unable to assist in the casting of the spell to close the rip; a fact that will render it uncastable.’

‘But if you do not assist, you will die,’ said Sha-Kaan.

‘And so will you all,’ said Styliann. ‘So I strongly suggest you agree to my terms. Either that or I walk away.’ There was a madness in his darting, wild eyes that Hirad had not seen before. It was like a crazed zeal and Styliann really believed he would get what he wanted; as if the Great Kaan, one hundred and twenty feet of animal power, would crumble to his crude blackmail. The Xeteskian’s hands were shaking and his tongue licked incessantly at his lips as he waited for Sha-Kaan to respond.

Hirad could not put into words what flowed through his body at that moment. The silence of The Raven told him they all felt the same. Disgust did not do it justice. Revulsion merely scratched its surface. Sha-Kaan, however, felt able to do more than glare his utter contempt.

‘You, little human, are willing to sacrifice the lives of everyone in Balaia and my entire Brood if you are not promised help to further your own personal ends?’

‘I prefer to think of it as fair recompense for my personal sacrifice in saving all of Balaia from certain death,’ said Styliann. ‘Though I can see where you might acquire your perception.’

‘But we are asking nothing,’ said Hirad, the words dragging themselves from his throat. ‘We do it simply because it has to be done.’

Styliann raised his eyebrows. ‘Then you have clearly not thought it all through quite as deeply as I have.’

‘Styliann, think about what you’re saying,’ said Denser from behind them. ‘You can’t walk away. You know that.’

‘Can’t I, Denser? I’ve already lost everything.’ Styliann didn’t turn round. ‘So just you watch me.’

‘But you’ll be killing us all,’ said Hirad.

‘So persuade your dragon not to call my bluff.’

Hirad wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug look from Styliann’s face but he knew the mage could kill him before he struck. Sha-Kaan growled far down in his throat, the sound rumbling like a distant avalanche.

Styliann smiled again. ‘It seems a fairly open and shut matter. But please do me the courtesy of answering my request in the affirmative. Your word being your honour.’

‘My answer,’ said Sha-Kaan, a slight nod of the head accompanying his words, ‘is exactly as you should expect.’

Styliann’s smile broadened.

‘Oh dear Gods,’ breathed Hirad. What possessed him he didn’t know but he dived forwards, snatching Septern’s texts from Styliann’s arms, hitting the ground and rolling on to his back.

Twin gouts of flame blasted from Sha-Kaan’s mouth. Hirad’s abiding memory was of the smile disappearing from Styliann’s face as, in the instant before his destruction, he saw his death coming. His body was blown backwards, a mass of fire, his chest a hole where his organs had once been and his head blackened and scoured.

He landed thirty yards away, his torso separating from his relatively undamaged legs, his chest and face gone, a scattering of ash in the breeze all that remained.

‘Impudent human,’ said Sha-Kaan.

The Unknown helped Hirad to his feet, the barbarian’s legs shaking, so close had he come to being caught in the fire. Denser had a hand over his mouth, his face ashen, exuding the nausea they must all feel. His other arm supported Erienne whose breath came in shallow gasps. Hirad turned to Ilkar, the elf regarding him blankly, his head shaking gently from side to side, ears pricked and reddening.

‘I hope you can use these,’ said the barbarian, handing him the writings, parchments and books. ‘You know, to do something.’ He shrugged. ‘Something else.’

‘I will continue my preparation,’ said Sha-Kaan, all anger gone from his voice. ‘I expect your new solution presently.’