The Raven hit the streets of Parve and galloped for the square. Behind them, Darrick and his cavalry were grinding the Wesmen down but taking heavy casualties themselves.
Hirad and The Unknown headed the gallop with Denser right behind them. At the rear, Thraun kept station, with the rest in the middle. Down empty streets they raced, towards the beacon fires that crested the pyramid, breaking into the square from the north. It was full of Acolytes.
Ignoring the battles behind them, hundreds of red cloaks swayed and intoned, the hum of their voices loud in the sound bowl that was the centre of Parve. There had to be five hundred of them, sitting in ordered rows, the first of which was a good hundred yards distant of the tunnel entrance.
‘Go! Go!’ yelled Hirad as The Raven threatened to slow. He ploughed on around the side of the square, turning left for the pyramid as the first Acolyte sounded the note of warning. The humming stopped, to be replaced by shouts of anger. The Raven rode on, Hirad slipping from his horse by the tunnel entrance and sweeping his sword through the stomach of one of the guards that flanked it. The second made it no further than The Unknown’s blade.
Behind them, the rest of The Raven dismounted, the horses cantering away with Denser’s at their head. For a time, the crowd simply stood and watched the invasion of their temple, but as The Raven looked to disappear into the gloom, the Acolytes mobbed and ran at them. Like a wave rushing at the shore, the red tide surged towards them, yelling their fury, their numbers simply overwhelming, the intent clear in a thousand eyes.
‘Great Gods in the sky,’ breathed Hirad. ‘What now?’
‘You and Denser, get to the tomb. We’ll hold them as long as we can and pray Darrick and Styliann arrive before they tear us limb from limb.’
‘No, Unknown,’ began Hirad, ‘I’m not lea—’
‘This is for Balaia now, Hirad. The one thing bigger than The Raven. Go!’ He turned to face the Acolytes, Thraun one side of him, Jandyr and Will to the right. Erienne and Ilkar stood behind.
‘You come back to me, Denser,’ warned Erienne. They clasped hands briefly before the Dawnthief mage and his bodyguard sprinted away along the tunnel, The Unknown’s orders in their ears and the sound of his sword point tapping on stone echoing away before them into the torchlit gloom.
The black fire drilled into Gresse’s horse just below the breast plate. The animal screamed and collapsed, an awful keening sound of pain not comprehended. Gresse was pitched hard to the floor, his head connecting with stone.
Behind him, Blackthorne, his wound stemmed with bright red cloth, saw the fall of his friend. Calling men to him, he drove back into the battle while all around him the black fire scorched through bodies and tore flesh and armour apart. The mêlée was confused now, with loose horses causing danger to everyone. The Wesmen lines were buckled and broken by boulder and sword alike but Blackthorne’s men had no magic and the Shamen were slowly changing the odds. The Baron kicked on, promising himself that if he couldn’t save Gresse, he’d complete the job the older man had started. The Shamen had to die.
Hirad and Denser ran along the tunnel. It was lit by braziers along the walls and carved in runes over the whole of its length. Behind him, the barbarian heard the sound of battle being joined by The Raven and he prayed he’d find them all alive again. The tunnel was two hundred yards long, and at the end of it, double doors stood closed. They were plain and heavy, with great brass handles either side at chest height.
As he approached, Hirad’s limbs took on a heaviness he hadn’t experienced since his fight with Isman in the Black Wings’ castle. Evil weighed on his muscles, pawed at his heart and dragged at his courage, enticing him to turn and run. The power of the Wytch Lords ran from the walls, fuelled the braziers and seeped into the air he breathed. The barbarian felt as if some giant hand was pressed on his forehead, pushing him back. It was Denser who broke the spell, the sound of his breath in Hirad’s ear as they reached the doors, the pulsating of his aura as he neared his ultimate goal blowing the evil aside.
Revitalised, Hirad pushed the left-hand door open and ran inside, Denser right behind him. They were in the pyramid; the architecture was different. Either side of a long flight of stone stairs, great slabs of mixed marble and stone rose into the gloom above their heads. The stairs were a good twenty feet wide and lit by pairs of torches resting in free-standing three-legged iron posts. The torch posts stood on every other of the forty steps. Two Guardians stood at the top, dressed in red cloaks and chainmail, each with a long curved blade - ceremonial but effective.
‘Stay behind me, Denser.’
‘I have no intention of doing otherwise.’
The Guardians moved to the top of the steps and stopped.
‘You are too late. The Masters are awakening. Kneel or be destroyed. ’
‘Save your breath for your prayers,’ snarled Hirad. He launched a vicious attack on the right-hand man, sweeping his blade low and leaning in to drag the point across his thighs. Expecting a higher strike, the Guardian dropped his sword too late and Hirad’s blade bit deep, sweeping out just above the knee. As the leg collapsed, and the man with it, Hirad hurdled him and faced the other square on. He laughed.
‘Want to try?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. Feinting a lunge, he side-stepped and swung double-handed at the Guardian’s chest. The blow was blocked but the man stumbled back under its force. Overheaded, Hirad struck again and again, beating the Guardian’s blade down until, face exposed, he caught the point of his jaw. The enemy dropped without a sound. He turned to see Denser pull his dagger from the first man’s heart.
The stairs led up to a corridor of marble, perhaps thirty feet long. Fires lit the way, let into the walls, their flickering glows illuminating the intricate mosaics depicting lines of people in red, bowing before six tall figures with light cradling their heads. Hirad ignored the picture, skating over its slippery surface with eyes locked on the single open door ahead. It was small, like the entrance to any house, but there was movement coming from within. He slid into the wall next to it and peered inside, his breath sweeping from his body as the shock hit him.
Six sarcophagi arranged as the spokes of a wheel, heads pointing inwards, dominated the large chamber. Each was well over nine feet long. And praying in the candlelit room were the Keepers. Twelve of them, two for each casket, heads bowed, speaking incantations in a language Hirad could not understand. Even from where he stood, Hirad could feel the chill inside the Chamber, like midwinter in the Blackthorne Mountains. The Keepers’ breath clouded as they spoke and a dull thudding reverberated around the walls.
‘Denser, we’re here,’ he hissed.
The Dark Mage came to his side. ‘I’ll need several minutes to cast.’
‘Well, get on with it.’
Denser moved back a dozen paces, laid the catalysts on the marble in front of him, dropped his head and began to form the shape of the most powerful spell ever created.
The Shamen destroyed the barrier they had created and Tessaya’s men stormed back into Understone Pass, running over, round and through the bodies of the defenders who had been trapped when the rocks came down.
Inside the pass, the devastation was startling. Men lay crushed beneath thousands of tons of stone, their catapults and heavy crossbows shattered and useless, defences beaten to splinters. For fifteen yards it was the same. The rockfalls must have claimed the lives of hundreds.
Darrick’s generals had retreated with any survivors, their next best defensive position being Understone itself and the sturdier structures, the building of which Darrick had overseen before his ride into the Wesmen lands. Crossbow towers, catapult emplacements, spiked stockades and camouflaged archer positions. None of it would stand up to the magic of the Shamen, but this time the defenders would be far more numerous.