Hirad formed words but no sound came for a time. He stared first at Denser and then at The Unknown, stunned by what his friend had been carrying all those years. The lies he had told to hide himself not only from them but from himself too. He had never had any future, or choice, and yet he had never once given them the slightest hint of his true self. What he was meant to be, and what he was for a short time.
The Unknown turned to Hirad, as if sensing the barbarian’s train of thought. ‘I wanted what we had to be true so badly that most of the time I believed it myself. The retirement, The Rookery, all of it.’
‘And now you can!’ Hirad felt a sudden, irrational surge of joy. ‘When this is over, you can!’
But The Unknown silenced him. ‘I should never have been released. Too much is lost.’ He stifled a sob. Denser looked back over his shoulder, a look of horror on his face. The Unknown nodded. ‘Just like you, Denser, just like you.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Ilkar was suddenly frantic.
‘The souls of the Protectors meld in the Mount. We are as one. When mine was taken back, part of me, that part that the brotherhood of the Protectors gave me, was lost for ever. I live, I breathe, I laugh, I cry, but inside I am empty. The Gods save any of you from knowing how that feels.’
The Wesmen army, angry, depleted and determined to exact revenge, marched on Blackthorne the following morning. They arrived just as the rain ceased its intermittent sprinkling, and stood well out of spell range.
Blackthorne watched from the Crown, gazing out over his town, its walls and on to the Wesmen-covered grasslands beyond. Gresse, once again by his side, flexed his fingers nervously, seeing the force assemble its ranks and lines. For more than three hours, they poured into the open space, striding to the beat of drums, their standards snapping in the fresh breeze, carts rattling behind, the shouts of leaders mixing with the howls and barks of dogs.
Thousands and thousands of Wesmen carpeted the ground, a sea of fur-clad hate and power ready to wash against the walls of Blackthorne. The Baron shook his head, barely believing so many had survived the carnage on the water. But still they came, the standards now numbering over a hundred, all stabbed into the earth on a rise less than a mile away. Ignoring the temptation to encircle the town, the Wesmen massed before the south gates, their numbers sending ripple after ripple of anxiety through the thin line of defenders.
From the centre of the army that Blackthorne estimated to number seven thousand or more, six Shamen walked calmly forwards, flanked by a dozen warriors, furs ruffling in the wind, hard faces taking in the walls, blades sharp and heavy. Immediately, mages on the outer walls began preparing. IceWind, DeathHail, ShieldSheer. The Shamen moved on, and at two hundred yards, Gresse thought they might want to talk. At one hundred and fifty yards, Blackthorne issued fire orders.
Spells crackled across the Shamen’s shield, lights flaring over its surface, the DeathHail bouncing and shattering as it met the greater magical force which glowed white in resistance. A storm of arrows arced across the gap, those on target bouncing away as the hard shield held. Still the Shamen walked on. At fifty yards, they stopped to cast.
‘You need men inside that shield,’ said Gresse. But Blackthorne was ahead of him, the flagmen already giving the orders. There was a flurry of movement by the south gates, a clash of steel and the protestation of wood as the gates began their ponderous opening.
Still the arrows and spells failed to penetrate the Shamen’s shield, maintained by two with the remaining four chanting and moving. From the barely open gate, Blackthorne’s men squeezed, running full tilt at the casting Shamen. They were too late.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, the Shamen raised their arms above their heads, hands splayed. White fire crackled between their fingers, the strands combining above their heads into four twitching beams which searched for purchase in the air like darting snakes’ tongues. The beams combined to form one pole of shimmering white light which sprang at the town walls, forking like lightning and flickering over them, knocking away dust, mould and lichen. For a moment, there was no discernible effect, then the light could be seen inside the walls, a map of pulsating, flaring veins. The Shamen cut off the beam and threw themselves to the earth, ignoring the swordsmen scant paces away. A two-hundred-foot section of the wall exploded outwards, sending stone fragments fizzing through the air at enormous speed. Blackthorne’s men never stood a chance, taking the full weight of the explosion.
The Baron’s plans dissolved as the wall came down, spilling archers and mages and causing pandemonium along the wall. More arrows flew, this time piercing the bodies of the unprotected Shamen, but the damage was done. Seven thousand Wesmen roared their way towards a breach Blackthorne’s men could not hope to fill.
‘Dear Gods,’ said Blackthorne. He turned to Gresse, his face white. ‘We’ll have to take them hand to hand through the streets. I—’
A flash lit up the sky. FlameOrbs soared away to the closing Wesmen ranks, exploding on impact, deluging men with mana fire. The screams of the unshielded victims rose above the war cries of the survivors.
White fire flared again as the Wesmen approached the breach. The southern gate house collapsed. Spells flickered across the sky, HardRain poured on to the Wesmen in the centre of the charge, IceWind tore through a flank, a quintet of Shamen were destroyed by the columns of a HellFire, but the Wesmen charge was undaunted.
From the base of the castle, soldiers and mercenaries ran to positions around the town, originally fallbacks, now desperate defence.
‘Saddle every horse in the compound,’ Blackthorne ordered an aide. ‘When the time comes, we’ll have to take to guerrilla moves in the foothills and plains trails. We can’t let them unleash this at Understone.’
The Wesmen reached the devastated gate and walls of Blackthorne and poured through the gaps into the town, sweeping aside the pitifully thin defence. From the standing walls, mages and archers rained fire, ice and steel on the invaders, but by now the Shamen had grouped for defence, and too often the rain bounced off shields, the arrows were knocked aside. And for every Wesman who died, a dozen more took his place. They surged through the town, firing buildings as they passed and cutting down the defenders who fought them at every street corner.
The wall defenders followed the Wesmen’s progress through the flaming town, attacking where they could but too often under attack themselves as the Shamen, unhurried groups of arrogant swagger, launched fine meshes of white fire or great rods of hard flame that fell like wet rope on the ramparts. Blackthorne Town was burning down.
‘We’ve lost this one!’ shouted Gresse above the roar of the Wesmen, the fires, the calls of the wounded and the crackle of the Shamen’s magic.
The stern Baron nodded, jaw set, eyes rimmed with tears. Less than ten minutes had passed since the Shamen had brought the walls down. He signalled the emergency order. Flagmen and trumpeters announced the loss of Blackthorne, and its defenders and people took to the foothills of the Blackthorne Mountains.
From there, they could track the Wesmen north to Understone Pass, harrying them all the way. But unless the Wytch Lords’ magic was taken from the Shamen, Blackthorne feared nothing could stop the rout of eastern Balaia.
And if they were to lose it, he hoped that at least he and Gresse could watch the Wesmen tear Pontois and the rest of the KTA limb from limb. It would be scant satisfaction, but right now it was all that kept him breathing. Everything he had was gone.
Chapter 29
The Arch Temple of the Wrethsires was set in a lush glade fed by hill streams. To the east, a lake sat at the base of the Garan foothills, providing peace. The solitude was completed by steep cliffs climbing two sides, sheer and menacing.