A half-smile flickered across Chandyr's mouth. It didn't touch his eyes. He nodded and took a pace forwards, coming so close Dystran could barely focus on him.
'Never accuse me of being a poor soldier again.'
'Men are judged by their actions,' replied Dystran mildly, though his heart was beating faster.
'You only get one warning,' said Chandyr.
The commander spun on his heel and strode from the dome, shouting for his horse. Dystran watched him go, letting his anger build. He had no wish to suppress it and enjoyed the heat it generated in his mind and body.
Chandyr did not understand, he reflected, hurrying out of the dome towards the base of his tower. His guards saluted him on his approach. Something else Chandyr had failed to do. A typical soldier. Blind to the bigger picture. Fit only to accomplish the task set before him and sometimes not even that.
'I want Sharyr in my reception chamber right now,' he ordered. 'He'll be in my hub rooms.'
'Yes, my Lord,' said both men.
Dystran began to climb his stairs. He replayed Chandyr's words, the tiny claws of doubt scratching at his self-confidence. That they had underestimated the Wesmen was not in question. This had been no disordered attack. There were brains and tactics behind it along with brimming determination and a willingness for self-sacrifice that had been breathtaking. Tessaya was out there somewhere.
What taxed Dystran most was not that the Wesmen lord had managed to marshal his warriors into very effective decoy and draw units. The issue here was that he plainly knew Xetesk was poorly defended by mage and soldier and had deliberately kept up his attack waves to force stamina exhaustion. Where had he got his intelligence?
Tessaya's aim had been obvious earlier in the day. It was why Dystran had withdrawn a core of mages to join the dimensional team and prepare for the next casting window. A window that had better be open.
Chandyr had been unable to hold the Wesmen back, though. He was surprised and disappointed by that. Xeteskian soldiers and archers should have been able to deal with a few ladders. How was it then that Wesmen had done that which no one should have been able to do?
Perhaps he should have probed further.
By the time he reached his reception chamber on the third landing, he could hear running footsteps behind him. He threw open the balcony shutters of the dimly lit room to reveal an uncomfortable picture of the threat to his city. He augmented his sight with a quick casting to sharpen the fine detail.
Lights blazed in a wide ring around an area over two hundred yards in length. It was bustling with Wesmen but not thronged. They were attacking left and right towards the nearest turrets and had built a shield wall, fresh-cut wood for the most part, towards the city. Archers were having some success but it was not affecting the advance along the battlements.
Chandyr had defended the turrets heavily. The Wesmen were suffering significant casualties but without a solitary spell to force them back to their ladders their weight of numbers would ultimately tell. How soon was hard to say. Before dawn in all probability.
'Dammit,' he breathed. 'Where did I go wrong?'
'My Lord?' queried a voice behind him.
'Sharyr,' said Dystran, not turning to face his new head of dimensional magics. Barely more than a student but the best he had left. 'Come here. Tell me what you see.'
He heard a nervous shuffle then slightly laboured breathing mixing with snatches of noise from the walls. Dystran looked across to Sharyr and watched the balding young man scanning the night, anxious to pick up whatever he was supposed to see. He shifted uncomfortably and gave a half shrug.
'Wesmen on the walls?' he ventured, voice tremulous.
'Excellent,' said Dystran. 'Does that scare you?'
'Yes, my Lord,' said Sharyr. T have family in the city.'
'Then they are fortunate because you will personally be keeping them safe, won't you?'
'Me? I-'
Dystran turned to face his nervous student.
'The distance between the walls of the city and those of this college is slight for a rampaging Wesmen army. Less than a mile, wouldn't you say?'
'My Lord.'
'This is not a big city,' said Dystran. 'When do you think the Wesmen will take either of those turrets?'
Sharyr stared at him blankly.
'You see,' continued Dystran. 'When they do, they will have access to our streets and more importantly, the south gatehouse. And there are thousands of them just itching to get in.'
'Yes, my Lord.'
'The point is that this undefined but quite possibly short length of time is how long you have to be ready to cast the spell of your choosing.'
'I-' Sharyr backed up a pace into the room.
Dystran turned to follow him. 'You do understand that none of those men will reach the college, don't you? If Chandyr can't stop them, you will. Won't you?'
'The — the alignment isn't going to be complete until this time tomorrow night,' managed Sharyr.
'Oh dear,' said Dystran, putting a hand to his mouth. 'Whatever will you do?'
'Well, I don't know, my Lord,' replied Sharyr, missing Dystran's sarcasm completely.
Dystran bore down on Sharyr, forcing the younger man to back away across the room.
'Then let me enlighten you.' His voice barely above a whisper. carried all the menace of long practice. 'You will be ready to cast because you and I both know that the alignment can be forced for the purposes of the casting. I have written at great length on the subject. The spell will be difficult to control and you will instruct your charges how to handle the forces and inform them of the personal consequences of failure. Backfire from a dimensional casting is very, very messy.'
Sharyr fetched up against the mantle of the fire. Fortunately for him, diere was no heat from the embers.
'The risks to our city. .' he began.
Dystran leant in further. 'The Wesmen will take this college if they are not stopped. That is the risk to our city. You will stop them or you will die in the attempt. Any of your team who feel they are not up to the task can report to me to discuss it.'
'I-'
'Do not fail, Sharyr.' Dystran straightened and stepped back a pace, seeing the terror in the student's expression, the sweat beading on his brow and the darting of his eyes. He chose to smile. 'You have heard the shout, "Death or glory"? Bet you thought it only applied to soldiers, didn't you? Think again, get down to the catacombs and be ready. When the time comes, I will call you personally to the walls of the city. Go.'
Sharyr had the presence of mind at least to bow his head and mutter, 'My Lord.'
But the door to the reception chamber opened before he reached it and an old man with tears on his face stood in the brazier light from the stairway. It was Brannon, Ranyl's manservant of decades.
'Please, my Lord,' he said. 'You must come quickly.'
Dystran felt his world dropping around him and fear shiver though his body.
'Oh no,' he breathed, already starting to run. 'Not now. Not now.'
Chapter 2
Hirad Coldheart sat on the steps of Julatsa's refectory. The night was warm and peaceful. From outside the college, he could hear the odd snatch of life. A cart rattling over cobbles; horse hoofs echoing against buildings; a voice raised in greeting. He breathed in deeply, feeling his chest wound pull under its bandages. It was a stubborn one. Magic had knitted the muscle but his skin was still sore and tight. A mark of age, he supposed. A little like the grey flecks he'd found in his long braids.
He knew he shouldn't but he felt released. All the problems that Balaia still faced and for the first time in so long he and The Raven were not bound by honour or contract to do anything about them. He knew he should still care but he found he couldn't. Not at the moment. Not ever, probably.
There was tension in Julatsa as those who had fled began to return. The city's rulers still hadn't had the guts to come to the college. There would be trouble, he was sure of it. And beyond this city, Dordover, Xetesk and Lystern presumably still fought. They'd battle themselves to a standstill. All too proud to sue for peace before the maximum blood was spilt.