‘I know, but we’ve got to take the initiative. They should never have been that well set. There is no way they could have known our route. No way.’
The mage raised his eyebrows. ‘The Wytch Lords must be closer to walking than we thought.’
‘Will you attempt the shield?’ asked Darrick.
The Xeteskian nodded. ‘Of course, if it’s what you wish.’
‘It is. Right, I’ve got to talk to the men, bring them up for this. It’s going to be one hell of a chase.’ Darrick smiled. ‘Two days to save Balaia. Ready?’
The Lord Tessaya stood with his Shamen on the hills outside Understone Pass which he had so recently relinquished but was surely soon to retake. Thirty thousand of his countrymen, some enemies less than a year ago, were camped within a few hours of the pass, while a dozen Shamen under protection from three hundred of Tessaya’s pass survivors were moving closer to the pass itself. A further five thousand Wesmen were ready to pour back under the mountains. It would be a sweet moment.
‘I want them slaughtered to a man for what they did to me. But bring me Darrick alive. I will personally oversee his very slow death manacled to the stone he thought to take from me.’ The Shamen nodded; one issued instructions. ‘How long before we are in position? ’
‘We will be awaiting your instruction as the sun reaches its zenith, Lord.’
Tessaya looked to the sky: two hours. Two hours and then maybe he could erase the sounds of the terrified as the sea from the sky crashed through the pass. The echoes of the water beating off the walls and sweeping away his people, their cries, their shouts and their pleas dying with them as they were driven into the chasms. So many would never be found to rest on pyres of honour. So many never had the chance to fight and die as they had dreamed.
But the towering act of cowardice would be avenged as his people forged into the east to take as they pleased. For the first time in days, Tessaya smiled.
‘I will mount up and lead my people back where they belong,’ he said. ‘We will soon all be drinking the blood of College mages.’
The Raven rode hard through unforgiving countryside as the sun rose into a partly cloudy sky. They hadn’t seen or heard any pursuit since leaving the Temple. The Unknown could no longer feel the Protectors and had no idea whether they were heading east or west. But though they were making good progress, the way was difficult, the horses would tire quickly and the risk of accident was ever present.
Their principal concern, though, was Jandyr. The elven bowman was struggling. After a night in which he was kept asleep under Erienne’s WarmHeal, he had pronounced himself able to ride, though his white, drawn and sweat-sheened face told The Raven about the pain he was suffering.
For an hour, he seemed to be standing it well, but as the morning wore on, he slowed more and more, spending much of his time flanked by Denser and Erienne, or Ilkar and Erienne. The mages, all with well-tuned healing ability, watched anxiously as the wound in his shoulder and back pulled and strained, blood soaking into his leather and shirt and dripping down his left arm, which hung strapped to his side.
At the first rest stop, and with the horses being checked, fed and watered by Thraun and Will, the rest of The Raven gathered around a gasping Jandyr as he lay propped against a moss-covered boulder. They had come to a stop at the head of a valley. Below them, the hills, windblown and stark, rolled away north and west towards Parve, while behind, the forest land they’d ridden through and which had provided such good cover lay like a coarse green blanket covering steep incline and shallow slope alike.
Perhaps a thousand feet below them, the principal trail from Parve to Understone cut along the base of the Baravale Valley, which bored one hundred miles between the west’s two principal ranges of hills and mountains. Now and again on the prevailing wind, the sounds of marching Wesmen reached them while they, out of sight, sat and considered their position.
‘Is there anything you can do to ease the pain?’ asked Hirad. Denser paused from warming Erienne’s hands and looked at her.
‘Hold on,’ she said. She withdrew her hands and helped Jandyr turn on to his side, giving her access to his wound. She unpicked the crude stitching of his leather and, with Ilkar’s help, eased the bloody jacket’s parts aside, cursing at the ruination of her work of the previous night. ‘The wound is pulling from the riding, there’s little I can do about that. What I can do is take the pain away, but he’ll not be aware of any further damage he’s doing. That could be dangerous.’
‘Jandyr?’ asked Hirad.
The elf breathed deeply, the sound a little ragged. ‘I can’t ride on like this,’ he said. ‘The pain is getting too much and I’ll hold you up. There’s a choice. Either you leave me here and come back when it’s over, or Erienne casts the spell.’
‘You can’t stay here alone,’ said Erienne. ‘Without treatment you won’t survive.’
‘Then the decision’s made,’ said Hirad.
‘He’ll need supporting some of the time. He won’t always be able to hold himself upright,’ said Erienne.
‘What are you planning on casting?’ asked Denser.
‘SenseNumb.’
‘That’s a little strong, isn’t it?’ said Ilkar.
Erienne hesitated.
‘What is it?’ Jandyr frowned. ‘It’s worse than you thought, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘The bleeding is worse than it should be. The flesh hasn’t knitted at all. I know you’ve been straining it in the ride but it should be better than it is. I need to cast SenseNumb to keep you going at all. I should be able to do more tonight.’
‘Will I still be alive tonight?’ asked the elf.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got a good record at keeping people alive, have I?’ Tears were suddenly in her eyes and running down her cheeks. Denser put an arm around her shoulder. He looked to Hirad.
‘I think we’d better get on,’ he said.
Approaching the village there was magic in the air. Styliann slowed his advance and moved to the rear of the column of Protectors. Still mounted, they walked their horses in close formation, the innate magical shields of the Protectors overlapping to produce something the Shamen would have to work hard to penetrate.
After leaving the Temple clearing, Styliann had turned south, his fury undimmed following a second humiliation at the hands of The Raven. And while he saw the sense of The Unknown’s words, he had already made up his mind that his route to Parve would not be at The Raven’s choice of pace. If he arrived in time to distract attention from them, so be it.
He had chosen as his first target a village just inside the Heartlands which would have staged marches towards Understone Pass and, possibly, the Bay of Gyernath. The village lay less than two days from the Torn Wastes. It would be a fitting message to the Wytch Lords about where the power really lay.
‘Advance,’ he ordered. ‘There are no innocents. Spare no one.’ It was the only voice that was heard as the Protectors pushed their horses to a gallop, making an arrow formation with Styliann at its rear, already forming the mana shape for his favourite destructive spell. He smiled at the very thought of what he had just ordered.
With only the sound of their horses to reveal their presence, the Xeteskian Protectors swept into the unprepared Wesmen village. Built on classic Wesmen lines, the village was arranged in a circle around the central tribal totem and fire. It contained about thirty buildings, fencing for animals and open-sided, roofed structures for crop storage.
The ninety-strong force divided into two around the circle, swords drawn and hammering down on the villagers, who scattered screaming in every direction. Men, women, children, no one in the way was spared the blade. And behind them, Styliann rode into the centre of the circle, spell prepared.