Beyond the walls the ground shook and the sound of tumbling stone echoed across the city. Auum heard screams. Still on the horse, he crouched and turned to the driver. The Al-Arynaar stood by him, working to keep him clear of strike-strain.
'Faster,' he said. 'We move.'
The wagon picked up pace, the flanking Al-Arynaar being forced to break into a trot to keep up. A movement caught Auum's eye, high and to the right. Reavers, eight or more, diving hard for the wagon. Not even he could keep them all away. He leaped back onto the kicker board.
'Above,' he said to the Al-Arynaar. 'Trouble.'
The reavers came in steeply, claws first, shrieking fury. Auum stepped up onto the roof with the two Al-Arynaar. It was temporarily clear of enemy. The gatehouse was approaching.
'Faster,' he ordered. 'Gallop.'
He heard the reins snap. The horses took off, happy to be let go, jerking the wagon behind them. Auum knew the mages beneath would lose the spell but others would still be casting. Above, the reavers adjusted their direction, knowing they wouldn't reach the horses before they reached brief cover. Three of them pulled away, flying over the gatehouse to meet them on their exit. The others ploughed on for wagon and driver. These would strike in time.
A shiver ran across the college. Nothing could be seen, but the sense of power rushing into the air was undeniable. Cursyrd howled and screamed. Hoots of alarm bounced across the courtyard. A concerted roar from the masters above rent the air. Auum smiled. It was mirthless. He dropped his dagger and had two short swords in his hands in a heartbeat.
Above, the reavers came on but they had slowed dramatically, deep inside what had suddenly become a dome of pain. They couldn't brake in time. Three, wings swept back, tried to change their attitude to feet first. It made no difference to Auum.
'Take them,' he said.
He sidestepped the first and drove both his swords deep into its back. Dark gore sprayed into the air but the thrusts were not fatal. The mana shells surrounding the cursyrd were stronger now, making them dangerous even within ColdRoom castings. Auum dragged the blades clear, ducked a claw from another reaver and whipped one blade across its throat, stabbing the other into its eye.
'Our turn now,' he spat at the creature as it died.
Across the courtyard, cursyrd broke off their attacks and fled back into the air. Denied mana, Al-Arynaar mages took swords from belts and formed up by the wagons once more. Strike-strain died in their tens and dozens, snared by the same claws that so recently had been hooks to drag through the flesh of men. Reavers not quick enough to flit up to safety were hauled to the ground and hacked to pieces, their skins boiling through bright colours, their veins spewing their life onto the cobbles.
The Julatsan wagon train drove out of the college and south through the city at an easy trot. Within the eleven surviving wagons, human and elven mages with their Al-Arynaar warrior guard searched for space among the baskets and barrels of provisions and water. The ColdRoom shell held steady, covering the train front to back and spilling over into adjacent buildings, keeping the cursyrd at bay for now. Auum moved back to sit by the driver, nodding his respect at the man who, though bloodied and shivering, held the reins steady, determination in every muscle.
But the sky outside the shell was thick with cursyrd, tracking them as they fled to open ground. And what worried Auum was that with the mana density clearly growing stronger, it wouldn't be long before the enemy could fight effectively inside the shell.
The fate of man and elf hung by the slenderest of threads.
It was dawn in Lystern but the light was dim and the few lanterns they could afford to use burned bright in the gloom. Faces were pressed to every window of the grand council chamber, though that was a misnomer now. The periphery of their ColdRoom castings was scant yards outside the filthy stained glass and across its surface, for the third day running, the flattened seeker demons crawled, searching for the telltale threads of mana they could use to direct their attacks.
In two days, they had lost two casting teams to lightning raids from the winged reavers and had been forced to withdraw into an ever-tightening space. They had too few mages to cycle their strength should they lose any more teams and their warriors were exhausted, trebling their day and night guard on this most precious of resources.
Heryst had no desire to look. Others would tell him if the seekers found what they were looking for. A slight discoloration in their pale underbellies would give them away. He had done all he could, moving the casting teams time and again. But their available area was small enough that it surely only put off the inevitable.
It had all been so sudden. The demons had seemingly become so much stronger. They had known the mana density was increasing but nothing had indicated this ability to strike so quickly and effectively at the heart of his defence. The last message he had received from Blackthorne told him that the wily Baron was under similar pressure and that they were considering running north to Xetesk where apparently the last vestiges of Balaian resistance were gathering.
He had no idea if that was true. So what if The Raven were back on the scene? So what if elves still fought in the open? He had heard nothing from any other college in over fifty days. For all he knew, his was the last that still stood free. Free. He almost laughed at the word. He had been right. They had grown complacent in their sanctuary. Lazy. They hadn't seen the signs. The growing numbers of demons, the sudden appearance of these seekers early one morning three days ago. They hadn't pieced it together.
And here they sat as a result with only the tower still to call their own. They had lost, temporarily it was to be prayed, access to all their tunnels and all but one well. If they couldn't regain some space
quickly, the next problem he would be facing was starvation. It was a factor that had escaped none of his dwindling band of survivors.
'My Lord?'
Heryst took his head from his hands and looked up into Kayvel's sick pallor. His old friend was dying by degrees. Gods drowning, they all were but something had infected this brave old man in the last days and he was fading so fast.
'Sit, Kayvel. Gods man, you should beresting.'
Heryst pulled out the chair next to him and Kayvel sank gratefully into it and rested his elbows on the table. In the centre of the table, guards completely obscured the casting trio who held death away from them all.
'We need a plan,' said Kayvel gently. 'They need to hear your voice, your strength.'
'Do they believe I really have any?' said Heryst, feeling the spear of doubt that had become all too familiar.
'Never let them hear you say that. You are their leader. They love and respect you. Don't ever forget that.'
Heryst nodded. T know,' he said. 'But it's so hard sometimes. Just look at what I have brought them to.'
He gestured around the council chamber, knowing what they saw was reflected in every room of the tower they called their own. Dirt, dust and rubbish covered the floors. The stale air was heavy with the smell of lantern oil and sickness. Every man, woman and child carried lice, was clothed in little more than rags and had the lank hair, dark expression and stoop that signified imminent defeat. He knew he looked the same. They had a mirror in one of the latrines but he didn't think anyone looked in it any more.
'Yes,' said Kayvel. 'It is dirty, it is squalid, it is diseased, and soon we will all succumb one way or another. But out there is the only alternative. Do you really have to ask which any of these people would prefer?'
'But am I not just prolonging their deaths? Kayvel, you are a realist. You know what is happening to you. If what you have is infectious, well. .'