Dawnthief battled him to do just that, but deep inside the recesses of his mind, something stood firm. The knowledge that at last he had found a true place to exist beyond the grasp of Xetesk. A place where he had true respect, was loved and looked after. One where he was free to choose his own destiny. The Raven.
It was time to open the gate to oblivion. To tear the dimensions aside and deposit the diminishing remnants of the Wytch Lords to be consumed in the vortex beyond. But he wanted it to be spectacular, to leave no one in any doubt that the Wytch Lords had been destroyed. He needed to make their last journey through Balaian space as public as it could be in this forsaken city. He smiled and canted his head upwards. He knew just the place.
The roaring of Dawnthief and the wind of living mana howled in Hirad’s ears. He lay half on and half off Thraun, pushing the shapechanger’s head to the ground. Still dazed by the fist of a Wytch Lord, Thraun struggled against survival, threatening to buck Hirad into the black until Will, seeing the danger as he came to, placed a hand on Thraun’s face and calmed him with a long, probing look.
Hirad stared back at Denser, who was wincing as Dawnthief dragged at his body, ripples of tension flowing across his face, the mist building and deepening around him. Abruptly, Denser’s expression changed, relaxed and cleared. The Dark Mage smiled, mouthed a further incantation and began moving his arms slowly inwards and upwards.
The Dawnthief column retracted, dragging the Wytch Lords with it. Their struggles were weak now, their bodies tangled in an awful parody of humanoid form, heads twisted on necks, legs and arms at impossible angles to bodies, backs broken. Only the light in their eyes remained to remind Hirad of the souls within.
A mist like that enveloping Denser swam from the end of the column, causing fitful resistance as it netted the Wytch Lords, reducing their spasmodic jerkings to a syrup-like slowness. It hemmed them in, trussing their bodies in a globe of flowing night. In a few moments, they were lost to sight but for a feeble probing at the opaque mesh that imprisoned them. Their howls, now of anguish and fear, were louder than Dawnthief itself.
Denser drew the column and its cargo towards him, angling it upwards until he stood directly beneath it and under the apex of the pyramid. The net shivered, and then, with a sharp jab upwards, Denser released the column, which screamed towards the apex, driving the opaque orb directly at the stone above.
‘Gods in the ground,’ breathed Hirad. ‘Run! Run!’ He began to sprint from beneath the apex, The Unknown right behind him, Thraun and Will close by. But neither Ilkar nor Erienne moved. Before Hirad could open his mouth to shift them, Dawnthief obliterated the cap of the Wytch Lords’ tomb.
Great slabs of stone blasted skywards carrying with them the dust of ages, material accompaniment to the howl of Dawnthief tearing through the sky. Light shone through the gaping rent in the tomb, pooling around Denser, his arms pointing to the heavens, his eyes wide, a maniacal smile on his face.
But while Dawnthief and its cargo tore through the fabric of the Balaian dimension and into the interdimensional space beyond, the stone did not. Spiralling back to the ground, huge chunks thumped into the pyramid. The ragged edges of the hole Denser had created, already weak, collapsed inwards, showering down on The Raven.
Hirad could see the end and knew he could do nothing. The Dawnthief column shut off, and Denser, still gazing into the light, pirouetted slowly and collapsed. Hirad turned away, unable to watch the rock hit home.
‘HardShield up,’ said Ilkar and Erienne together. ‘Nobody move.’
For Denser, it was the completion of a life’s dream. The casting of Dawnthief and all its multi-layered complexities had been every bit as thrilling as he’d dared hope. At one with mana, truly a part of its random life, he had struggled with temptation, overcome energies the power of which he could not have conceived, and triumphed. But more, he’d opened a gate to oblivion and deposited the broken bodies of the Wytch Lords there, souls destroyed by the hunger of Septern’s spell as he’d withdrawn from its influence. And now he had nothing left to give. The residue of Dawnthief clung to his mind and encased his body, caressing him, offering him peace, promising him rest. What more could Balaia’s saviour desire? Was it not what he truly craved? Denser closed his eyes and gave himself up to its glories.
Mosaic splintered and crumbled under the weight of stone crashing down from above. Shards of rock flew and ricocheted. Hirad flung himself to the ground, covering his head, only to roll over and sit up immediately. The HardShields covering them all repulsed chip and boulder alike. He looked on as a slat fully five feet long and two thick tumbled end over end through the air, impacting the shield directly above the unmoving body of Denser. It slid over the invisible surface to the mosaic with a heavy thud. Elsewhere, stones the size of fists and skulls rained down, the noise of multiple collisions drumming hard on the ears and rattling the floor underfoot. And all was washed by a dust-filled light, shining through the blasted pyramid apex.
The tumbling of rock and the cracking of tile and slab subsided. Hirad climbed wearily to his feet, frowning as he caught sight of Erienne’s face. The Dordovan had tears streaming down her face, her body quivering, clearly struggling to maintain control of her spell as she stood a few paces from Denser, her eyes fixed on the Dark Mage. The fall stopped, a quiet ringing replacing the boom and thump.
‘It’s over,’ said Hirad.
Across the battle, the mood changed. From a hundred fingers, the black fire shut off abruptly, magical shields dropped and the Shamen’s faces of victory turned to uncertainty and then fear.
Blackthorne saw it happen. Knew the change in the air meant The Raven had won, and yelled his delight. His men surged, the Baron himself galloping through leaderless Wesmen lines to his fallen friend. He slid from his horse, slashed his blade across the neck of an attacker and knelt down. Gresse, blood covering his head, was still breathing. Blackthorne called a man over and the two of them carried the unconscious Baron from the battlefield, the cries of the east ringing loud in their ears.
Behind them, the Wesmen were broken. Without the Wytch Lord magic, the Shamen were helpless, and without the Shamen, the warriors had no focus. Individually ferocious they might be, but the tide had turned and Blackthorne’s men were alive once more.
Blackthorne opened his mouth and roared in jubilation. Today was going to be wonderful.
‘Shield down,’ whispered Ilkar into the silence.
‘Shield down.’ Erienne’s voice broke and she ran to Denser, dropping to her knees and picking up his head to cradle it, burying her face in his shoulder, rocking back and forth, crying and murmuring soft words.
‘What is it?’ Hirad started forwards.
Erienne’s tear-stained face turned to him. ‘He’s dead,’ she wailed. ‘He’s not breathing.’
‘No.’ Hirad slid down beside her. ‘Ilkar, come on, do something.’
‘There’s not a spell for everything, Hirad,’ said Ilkar, racing to join them. ‘He has no wounds. There’s nothing to heal.’
Hirad gazed up and down Denser’s body. There was not a mark on him, though his lips were blue.
‘Right. Lay him down, Erienne. Unknown, get over here and angle his head. Clear his throat.’
‘Got it.’
Hirad focused on Denser’s face. ‘Don’t even think about it, Denser,’ he said, and started thumping the mage’s chest above his heart with the base of his fists. ‘Don’t you dare die. Come on.’
Erienne stroked Denser’s hair. ‘Please, Denser,’ she sobbed. ‘I have your child within me. Don’t leave me alone.’