‘No. He is their Given and they can never hurt him. Who cares? Styliann believed me.’
Hirad laughed again. ‘Nice work, Unknown. C’mon, let’s take a look at the lake, get Will some water.’
The attack hammered in along the entire length of the Wesmen lines as they marched through flat areas of grassland, flanked by pockets of dense forest. It followed a storm of arrows, HardRain and DeathHail, forcing the Shamen to use valuable stamina raising hard and magical shields.
A thousand riders surged into the exposed enemy, hoofs churning mud, earth and blood, blades flashing in the midday sun. The noise was like heavy rain on a slate roof, growing in intensity. Blackthorne’s men wheeled after their first charge, disengaging to re-form. The horns sounded again and Gresse’s force levered into the other flank, spreading disarray.
Gresse felt like a young man again as he kicked his horse into the suddenly less smug, tanned faces of the Wesmen. He cut left and right as he drove forwards, splitting the face of one man and slicing through the shoulder of another. Blood filled the air, misting in front of his face and spattering his legs, saddle and chest. Noise, tumultuous, filled his ears.
Around him, his men clattered into the enemy, the shouts of Wesmen trying to gather a defence mingling with the cries of the dying. He urged his mount onwards, pushing one man aside with a blow from his shield and fielding a spear jab on the guard of his sword. The Wesmen were falling back under the onslaught, their line order threatening to break, confidence taken apart by the rampaging horses and the flashing steel of their riders. Gresse began to scent victory.
The horns sounded again and he wheeled his horse through a half-circle and ploughed out of the carnage, trampling the dead and dying under hoof. Looking left and right, he counted only a handful of riderless horses and he shouted his delight as he galloped away to re-form out of Wesmen bow range.
Down came the spells and arrows again on the Wesmen ranks, but this time more of them stopped short, bouncing from shields or flaring darkly on magical contact.
A third time, the horns sounded, signalling the push on the Shamen, so far defended by their warrior guards, and Blackthorne came charging back in, mages in attendance, shielding as many men as they could.
By now, the Wesmen had regrouped and stood ready, drawn into tight defensive cells. Blackthorne’s spearmen levelled poles and clattered into the enemy, making less ground but fragmenting the outer defensive lines. The swordsmen followed them in, Gresse seeing Blackthorne’s blade rise and fall, spraying blood in all directions.
There was a hum in the air, cutting through the din of battle, assaulting the ears and setting teeth on edge. Horses, skittish and with nostrils flaring, threatened to rear. From the fingers of every Shaman issued whip-like lines of black, flailing the air and burying themselves in horse and rider alike.
Agony. Death in terror and pain unimaginable. Where the spell found an unshielded body or breached magical defence, man and beast died by the score. As Gresse watched, a line of dark caught a rider in the midriff and tore up his body, unpicking his leather, stomach and chest like a tailor’s knife through fine cloth. His intestines gushed through the rent in his body, ribs shattered, and his dying cry was silenced as the dark reached his neck.
Elsewhere, holes were punched clear through bodies, flesh was burned or eaten aside and the tide of the battle turned with stunning speed. Blackthorne whirled his sword above his head and the horns sounded full retreat. Gresse barked orders to his men, and the Baronial cavalry kicked away from the scene of devastation, leaving the blood of the east to mix with that of the west, the jeers of the Wesmen ringing in their ears.
Glory was turned to darkness.
Chapter 31
A dry and warm night was followed by a cloudless dawn, the rain of the preceding day a distant memory.
Denser had held a brief communion with the lead mage at Understone and at least they knew that Styliann had not been exaggerating. To the south, and moving at worrying speed, the Wesmen were three days from Understone, and Blackthorne’s efforts were yielding little but the blood of his own men. But worse, some thirty thousand Wesmen and Shamen were a day from the western entrance to the pass.
‘And you said the Wytch Lords haven’t yet regained their full strength?’ said Hirad.
Denser nodded. ‘When they are walking and fully focused, the Shamen’s power will be completely unstoppable.’
‘If it isn’t already,’ said Ilkar.
‘How far to the Torn Wastes?’ Hirad asked.
‘Two and a half days’ ride to the borders, perhaps another hour to the pyramid,’ replied Thraun.
‘That is cutting it very fine indeed,’ said Ilkar.
‘And it assumes we aren’t held up on the way,’ added Thraun.
There was a contemplative quiet. Hirad pictured a headlong dash into the maw of sudden death - around any corner, Wesmen could be waiting in great numbers.
‘We could do with your cat now, couldn’t we?’ said Will ruefully.
‘I could do with him all the time.’ Denser’s smile was thin and cold.
‘How long can Darrick’s men hold Understone Pass?’ asked Hirad.
The Unknown shrugged. ‘Who can say? We haven’t seen the Shamen magic. All that’s working in our favour is the narrowness of the entrance. There can’t be an attack on a wide front and that gives our mages the chance to shield effectively.’
‘Hmmm.’ Hirad leaned back against the Temple steps, draining his mug. ‘And can Jandyr ride?’ The elf was being left to rest.
Erienne nodded. ‘Wake him any time, just don’t ask him to fight or fire his bow.’
‘How long before he can?’
‘In an ideal world, a day, no more. But we’re riding hard and it’ll pull at his wounds. If I don’t get the time, you don’t get your bowman.’
‘Great,’ said Hirad. ‘Well, I guess we shouldn’t hang around here waiting for the end of the world. Let’s go and create it for ourselves.’ He clapped Ilkar on the shoulder and rose.
Inside half an hour, they were riding for the Torn Wastes.
To Darrick, it was all very simple. Ride the secondary trails to the Wastes and there drive hard into the flanks of the Guardians and Keepers of the Tomb. Kill anything that got in the way and see The Raven back to the pass, victorious.
But two hours after dawn of his third full day in Wesmen lands, a third of his men were dead, another fifty were injured and his mage support was in tatters. Stopping to assess the damage fully, his body shaking with rage and humiliation, he still couldn’t see how the Wesmen could have known their route.
Seventy bowmen, concealed from the path, launching waves of death and disorder that cut down horse and man alike. At the first wave, the cavalry broke ranks, charging left and right up the shallow incline into the shrubland behind which the trap had been laid. More lost their lives as arrows hurtled in from close range before, at last amongst them, the cavalry wiped out the Wesmen archers. He considered himself very fortunate not to have run into any Shamen.
Darrick surveyed his forces, reading the shock and dismay in their faces. He dispatched the worst injured back to the pass before consulting the lead mage. The Xeteskian was now in charge of only seventeen.
‘Can you hold hard and magical shields on the gallop?’
‘What’s your plan?’
Darrick shook his head. ‘We have to push on. If we decide to leave the trails, we may as well turn back now because we’ll be too late. I want to turn this around, drive hard the rest of the day and surprise them with how deep we are into their territory. If we meet another ambush, I don’t want to pause in the gallop.’
‘That’s high risk,’ said the Xeteskian.