‘But look at the numbers we are losing,’ said another. ‘They are killing us five to one because we can’t see to cast into the pass and their heavy offence is coming from there.’
‘And we cannot afford to give them rest,’ said Tessaya. ‘We can win by wearing them down man by man, but that is unacceptable.’ He gazed at the entrance to the pass, his eye tracing the arch which rose some thirty feet above the battle ground, its rock hewn back so long ago when it was believed the two peoples could genuinely live in peace. He smiled as the solution presented itself. ‘I think it’s time we widened that arch. Raised the roof a little, don’t you think?’
‘Five Shamen could do it,’ said the old man, catching Tessaya’s train of thought.
‘See that it is done,’ said Tessaya.
The message was passed swiftly to the front lines and the quintet of casters gathered in the centre of the battlefield, a zone of calm in the swarming mass of warriors. Shields were raised over them and, with the noise of battle deafening in their ears and with boulders and bolts slicing the air above their heads, they cast the spell to change the course of the fight for Understone Pass.
The white fire lashed out, catching the top of the arch. It fizzed and crackled away, licking the rock either side and well into the pass itself. The rock glowed and shone, the Wytch Lord spell sourcing every crack, fissure and weakness. It poured down the side walls, dislodging chips and dust as it went, and raced here and there along the roof twenty paces in. The Shamen shut off the spell, the horns sounded a retreat and the Wesmen disengaged, shouting their hate and leaving their dead.
It began with a rumble that seemed to come from deep within the mountains. The arch shook, the walls shivered, the roof undulated and then the whole collapsed. Great boulders of rock fell from left, right and above, spreading panic through the defenders. Some ran inside, others for the slopes either side of the pass entrance, but most just stood as the ground juddered under the pounding rock that collapsed along a fifteen-yard stretch, destroying everything beneath it. Men, defences, catapults, all fell victim to the deluge.
In front of the pass, the Wesmen scented victory and yelled new battle cries of triumph at the floundering defenders. Dust filled the air, shards of stone lashed away into the gloom, cutting down those who had escaped the initial collapse, and then, as violently as it had begun, the fall ceased and all that was left was an echo, rumbling away into the heart of the Blackthorne Mountains.
When the dust began to clear, the sight that greeted Tessaya warmed his heart. The defenders’ lines were broken. Hundreds lay dead or dying and those that survived blinked into the new light, leaderless and vulnerable. Because behind them, the pass had gone. Blocked almost from floor to roof by the rock. Nobody was going back, nobody else was coming out.
Tessaya smiled, knowing that his Shamen and warriors could remove the fall as simply as they had caused it in the first place.
‘Sound the attack,’ he said. ‘We’ve a lot of work to do.’ With a roar to cool the heart, the Wesmen set to work.
Selyn had died in Parve and Styliann would see the City returned to dust in revenge. He had stopped to gather his strength and to let his Protectors rest and bind the few wounds they had suffered, and now, with dawn broken, they were riding the Torn Wastes. His commands had been simple. Reach the city as fast as the horses would take them, and once there, kill everything western that moved and burn everything that didn’t.
He rode in the centre of his Protectors, knowing they would shield him and feeling the thrill of mana energy coursing through his body. As the sun rose, he saw the pyramid, its fires dulled by natural light but burning all the same, saw the miles of the Torn Wastes and saw a stand of Wesmen tents about three miles in to the right and in front of him. They would be first.
Ten Protectors moved ahead to take the encampment, wheeling their horses out of line with complete precision and forming two lines of five as they raced away to the right. The rest galloped on.
Reaching the tents, the Protectors reined in, dismounted and took the canvas apart, piece by piece. Wesmen hurried to defend themselves as the Protectors moved in a single line through the encampment, silent, masked, deadly. At its centre, they stopped in the ashes of the long-dead fire, waiting. In front of them, the Wesmen, around thirty of them, formed up, nervous, hefting blades and axes in unsure hands.
Ten Protector sword tips tapped the ground. Once, twice, three times. On the fourth, in response to unspoken command, they switched their swords to their right hands and swept the axes from their backs into their left and joined battle in a whirl of blurring steel.
The Wesmen had no defence. Where one thrust forwards, the gap he thought he’d worked was stopped by the blade of a different opponent. Axe followed sword, delivering death and dismemberment. The Protectors marched forwards, each one swatting one strike aside before delivering the next themselves, their wall of strokes complementing each other and giving the Wesmen no chance at all.
The shouts of the Wesmen as they fought and died were met with the eerie silence of the Protectors, who barely even breathed heavily as they advanced, slicing at torso, hacking at neck and stabbing at heart and head. It was all over in a couple of minutes, and without pausing to view their efforts, the Protectors left the Wesmen blood to soak into the earth of the Torn Wastes and rejoined their brethren and Given.
Styliann rode on, slowing only as the buildings of Parve neared through the rubble of the City’s outskirts. Half a mile from the first, he saw Parve’s defenders lined up against him. Wesmen by the hundred, Shamen by the dozen and, here and there, red-cloaked Guardians and Acolytes.
He nodded, satisfied. He could take them all. And every skull crushed and heart ripped out was another he would offer to Selyn and another The Raven would not have to face. A quarter of a mile from the defensive lines, he brought the Protectors to a halt, dismounted them and marched to the attack of Parve, FlameOrbs already forming in his mind.
Under the cover of pre-dawn night, The Raven made slow and steady progress through the Torn Wastes, elven and shapechanger eyes directing every hoof fall. The horses were walking, no need for a gallop until or unless they were challenged. They would arrive at the City as light broke the darkness.
‘Are they here?’ asked Hirad. He was riding with The Unknown at the head of The Raven. Behind them rode Ilkar and Thraun, eyes piercing the darkness, low voices warning of any potential threat, although in truth there was little unless they were seen. The Wesmen who had been camped there were marching on Julatsa or pounding the defences of Understone Pass.
Jandyr, his face pale and slick with pain, rode between Denser and Erienne with Will bringing up the rear. The elf had made good progress during the hours of rest. His wound had stopped bleeding and Erienne’s WarmHeal had been targeted carefully and successfully on the worst-affected muscles in his shoulder and back. His fever had broken and, although weak, he had elected to ride without sedation, determined to keep his mind clear in case of attack. Although, with barely enough strength to draw his sword, let alone wield it, he wasn’t sure he’d be of any use.
‘I can’t feel them,’ said The Unknown. ‘But that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. If they are under instruction from Styliann, they won’t be open to me. Don’t forget, I’m not in the soul tank any longer and my ties are weak.’ He reached out again, not with his mind but with what he felt to be the centre of his being, yearning for the time of warmth he had spent with his brothers. He still felt an emptiness inside him, though his return to The Raven and their unconditional acceptance of him had eased his transition. But he didn’t think he would ever truly be free of the Protectors. He didn’t think he wanted to be. And so, he would forever class himself as an outsider.