‘We can be set by an hour after dawn.’ Gresse put out his right hand, which Blackthorne shook heartily.
‘The Gods will see us to paradise,’ said the old Baron.
‘And the Wesmen and Pontois to hell.’
It was late evening and The Raven had arrived on the borders of the Torn Wastes. Dark cloud dominated the sky and a chill wind picked at branches, loose vegetation, cloak and hair. Like Selyn before them, they were to the left of the west trail guard post on the edge of the forest, looking out seven miles to Parve, the beacon fires atop the pyramid burning bright in the night sky. But unlike the Xeteskian mage spy who had provided crucial intelligence concerning Wytch Lord power, The Raven were not looking through a sea of Wesmen tents.
Thraun had brought them through the woodland surrounding the Torn Wastes without error, and they lay a quarter of a mile from the trail, their horses quietened under a command from Denser and marshalled by his mount. The Wastes themselves stood largely empty. Here and there, camp fires ate into the night, but they were sparse. The vast majority of the Wesmen force was now outside Understone Pass, or nearing it.
But the atmosphere this close to the City of the Wytch Lords was charged with dread triumph. It oozed from the ground and carried on the air, pervading every sense and choking the heart. Standing and staring at the beacon fires, hearing the noise of Parve on the wind and feeling the cold against his cheeks, Hirad couldn’t shake the feeling that they had arrived too late. But he couldn’t afford to believe that. Not while people fought and died to save the lands he loved, not while the Wesmen marched to destroy his cities and not while The Raven still stood tall.
A day and a half’s hard riding had brought them within sight of their goal, and while the ride had taken its toll on all of them, Jandyr’s condition was giving Erienne cause for great concern.
‘Well, here we are,’ said Denser. ‘It’s seven miles to the pyramid from here. One gallop and we’re there.’
Hirad, standing next to him and leaning on a tree, couldn’t help but smile. ‘I wish it was so simple,’ he said. ‘Wesmen perimeter defence, Shamen attack, a square full of Acolytes and a tomb full of Guardians.’
‘Well, you can always dream,’ said Denser. ‘Seriously, how do you assess the defence?’
‘Just as I described,’ replied Hirad.
‘And too much for The Raven alone,’ said The Unknown. ‘Even if Jandyr were fit, our chances of reaching the pyramid and casting the spell are negligible.’
‘How is he?’ Denser addressed himself to Erienne. The Dordovan mage looked up and held out a hand. Denser helped her up and the two stood, arms around each other’s waists. The Raven gathered around Jandyr, who was lying unconscious under Erienne’s latest desperate WarmHeal. Thraun stood by his head, with Will crouched by his friend, keeping his brow cool with a water-soaked cloth. Even in the sparse light of early night, the elf’s pallor was plain and unhealthy, great dark ovals were around his eyes and his lips had lost their colour.
‘Not good,’ said Erienne. ‘Not good at all. I’ve cleaned and redressed the wound. Thraun and I bound it very tight this time including his left arm, so he’ll have very restricted movement. The spell has knitted the muscle in his shoulder and is speeding the skin regeneration, but the riding has really hurt him. I’m afraid the SenseNumb stopped him realising the wound was becoming infected and he has a light fever. I can try a SurfaceMeld, but after that, I’m spent.’
‘But he’ll live?’ asked Hirad.
‘So long as he’s not made to gallop seven miles to a nearby city and then rushed into a pyramid to face the waking dead, yes.’ Erienne’s lips turned up at the corners.
Hirad thought briefly. ‘How tired are you, Denser?’
‘Very,’ replied the mage. ‘As are we all.’
Hirad looked to Ilkar and The Unknown. Both nodded.
‘That settles it, then,’ said the barbarian. ‘The salvation of Balaia will have to wait until morning.’
‘And what then?’ asked Will. ‘How can we do it alone? You heard what The Unknown said, we can’t fight them all.’
‘We’ll do what The Raven have always done.’ Hirad moved to stand with Ilkar and The Unknown. ‘We’ll walk careful, fight clever and run wise.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
The Unknown replied this time. ‘It means, Will, unless I’ve gone badly astray, that we’ll walk our horses into the Torn Wastes perhaps two hours before dawn. If we’re lucky, we’ll make the City unchallenged and the odds will begin to swing. If not, we’ll fight where we have to and run where we don’t.’
‘But Darrick and Styliann?’ Will was frowning.
‘We can’t wait for them,’ said Hirad. ‘We don’t even know if they’re coming. And you heard what Styliann told us. Understone and Julatsa will fall unless we can break the Wytch Lords. We’ve got to try or the battle will be lost.’ He walked over to the smaller man and crouched by him, boring the look into his eyes that had fired The Raven so often.
‘This is it. It’s down to us and we’re going to do it, I can feel it.’ He stood and spread his arms wide. ‘We’ve got this far and we’ve all lost those we loved. We can’t, I can’t, let that go. It’s payback time.’
Chapter 32
Dawn on Balaia’s day of judgement broke with fire in the sky. White fire.
It scorched along Understone Pass’s hastily erected stone and wood defences, which rose half the height of the pass entrance. They had been built to repulse catapult, sword and spear, the pathways running behind them packed with archers. But there was no defence against the white fire. It picked and chewed at the stone, while defenders, having shot their arrows, scrambled for safety.
Twenty Shamen, magically and hard-shielded, stood silent and tore the walls down. But this time the defenders were ready for them, and as the walls came down, two thousand foot soldiers raced from the breach, protective mages keeping pace behind them.
Caught admiring the handiwork of his Shamen, Tessaya could only stand and watch as they and their bodyguards were cut to pieces before Wesmen warriors could get anywhere near them. He ordered battle joined and blood and noise filled the air.
Their initial mission accomplished, the pass defenders fell back in orderly formation, forming a tight half-circle around the entrance to the pass. From within, and beyond the range of the Shamen who walked behind the sea of warriors, bolts and stones from low-trajectory catapults and heavy crossbows thrummed overhead, dealing devastation to the rear of the Wesmen lines. FlameOrbs and HotRain lashed into the invaders, either flaring over shield or, where it broke through, spewing flame across the ground and over defenceless bodies. The stench of flesh and the pall of smoke stung the eyes.
The defenders’ lines were holding. The generals of the pass kept a heavy presence of defensive mages covering the swordsmen outside, and they fought hard, knowing the line could not be flanked. They fought from wall to wall and nothing could get behind them. In front of them, better than thirty thousand Wesmen waited to take their chance. For the defenders it wasn’t a question of winning; it was about buying time.
Tessaya watched from his vantage point, admiring the fighting spirit of the defenders and seeing his people die from sword, spell and missile in numbers he had not expected. But, unlike the massacre caused by the water spell, this sight held no fury for him. This was true battle and his men fought and lived or died bravely. He turned to his generals and Shamen.
‘Comments?’
‘They can hold us until their reserves of mana stamina run low,’ said a Shaman, an old man happy to observe and advise. ‘Their overlapping magical shields are effective but draining. If we are patient, we will break through.’