Man-packbrother moved along the edge of the occupation. Thraun was inside the first line of dwellings, most of which burned, their occupants either dead or running blindly. There was no order. From his right, he heard sounds of alarm. Three enemy moved towards man-packbrother. Thraun hit them at a dead run, catching the first on his chest and sending him sprawling into the others. Consumed with the blood, he ripped and tore, his fangs chopping into flesh as he worked his head left and right, his paws beating, claws dragging.
From above, an enemy hit him with his sharp weapon. It stung his hide and he yelped, rounding on his tormentor, whose eyes widened. It had been a hard blow but Thraun’s side had not split. He bared his fangs and advanced.
Denser flew back towards the blazing marquees, rising high to assess the mayhem he had so spectacularly initiated. Panicked Wesmen beat at the edges of the fires, their bucket chain scarcely making a dent in the heat and destruction. Ilkar’s ForceCone had knocked the animal picketing flat on a twenty-foot stretch and in the confusion of fear and fire, horses and cattle stampeded away from the bright yellow blazes licking the air, trampling man and tent indiscriminately.
To his left, Thraun clamped his jaws on the sword-arm of a hapless Wesman warrior and further on in the shadows cast by the fire, he caught the odd glimpse of The Raven, tracking towards the shore, unmolested for the moment.
Ilkar, cradled in his arms, was getting heavy. Denser was a strong man and the ShadowWings he had cast were trimmed for weight but there was a limit and the growing ache in his limbs was beginning to threaten his concentration.
‘What have you got left?’ asked Denser.
‘FlameOrbs or another ForceCone. I want to keep enough to shield the boat,’ replied Ilkar. ‘More to the point, what have you got left?’
‘I’ll let you know,’ said Denser.
‘How?’
‘You’ll start falling.’
‘Funny.’
‘Just get concentrating on those Orbs. If we can disrupt the bucket chain, we might get clean away.’ Ilkar nodded and closed his eyes, his mouth moving slightly, fingers describing intricate circles in the air. Denser leaned back to counter the shift in balance.
Denser watched the expert movements of the efficient mage, arms almost still, hands creating the shape with the words his mouth framed. Nothing was wasted, no mana stamina escaped. He was a consummate mage, his magic learned through long years and honed through sometimes agonising practice. Denser knew this because it had been the same for him.
Yet, despite Ilkar’s clever use of his stamina, he was beginning to tire while Denser felt as fresh as he had before he had cast his CloakedWalk. Something had happened to him during his casting of Dawnthief. A new linking with the mana, a coupling forged deep in the core of his being. And it had given him new ways to construct his shapes. Much as Styliann harnessed mana in a way so thrifty and quick it took away the breath, so Denser had that understanding. But it was more than mere understanding. It was fundamental coexistence with the fuel of magic.
Ilkar nodded, Denser’s signal that he was ready to cast. His eyes were now open, focused on the target ahead. Denser flew above the bucket chain, out over Triverne Inlet and round again, coming up the line giving Ilkar the widest target area he could.
‘FlameOrbs.’ Ilkar clapped his hands and opened his palms. A trio of orange globes rested there, growing to the size of apples before he jerked his hands down and apart, the FlameOrbs flashing away. They grew as they fell, to the size of skulls when they collided with the unprotected Wesmen, splashing fire that consumed fur and flesh, the screams of the burning rising over the crackle of the fires that engulfed the camp.
Denser, his arms pained from shoulder to wrist, headed down to the beach.
Hirad broke into a sprint as Ilkar’s FlameOrbs destroyed the bucket chain, fracturing the Wesmen’s fragile organisation. He raced around the final tents before the shore, leading The Raven across the sand, the Wesmen forgetting all thoughts of saving their tents, turning instead to help kinsmen whose agonised cries split the night.
Ahead of him, Thraun paused, looked to see that Will was safe, and streaked across the sand towards Denser and Ilkar who had landed near the boats. Hirad pushed on, crunching sand underfoot, the rhythmic fall of small waves on the shore contrasting with the clamour of noise from the ruined camp. Ahead of him, Thraun brought down a Wesman warrior from behind, the man’s bucket flying from his grasp, the warning sounds of his kinsmen too late to save him.
There was a dip in the level of the bedlam. The fires raged on but the Wesmen paused, making a concerted move for their weaponry as it dawned on them exactly what was happening.
‘We’ve got to move fast,’ said The Unknown by Hirad’s shoulder.
‘Raven!’ shouted Hirad. ‘Raven with me.’ He charged towards a knot of Wesmen who had gathered near Thraun. The wolf snarled, darting in, jaws snapping, claws whistling through the air. Wary, the Wesmen kept their distance. But they couldn’t avoid The Raven.
‘Erienne, find a boat. We need a fast sail. Will, defend the mages. Unknown, with me.’ He tore into the Wesmen, sword chopping through fur and flesh. Beside him, The Unknown’s blade caught the glare of the fires as it plunged into his victims. Thraun, sensing he was helped, howled and leapt, jaws burying into a shoulder.
Hirad parried an axe sweep to his head, his sword sliding down the shaft, shaving wood and chopping the gripping fingers from his assailant’s hands. The man shuddered, mouth open in shock, axe falling. Hirad’s next blow took out his throat. More Wesmen saw them. Thraun ran over his latest kill to attack the oncoming pack. Swords rose and fell but Hirad could see as he smashed a fist into an enemy nose and brought his blade through his stomach, that Thraun sustained no wounds.
From behind them, blue lightning arced across the sky, piercing the eyes of three Wesmen who fell clutching at their smoking faces. The attack faltered. Hirad batted aside a clumsy thrust, stepped inside, head-butted his opponent back and followed up with a stab clear through the heart. Beside him, The Unknown raked his blade across two chests, blood fountaining from a sliced artery and smashed lung while Thraun’s snarls and growls accompanied Wesmen cries of desperation.
Hirad glanced over his shoulder. Ilkar and Erienne had pushed a boat out on to the water. At twenty feet long, it would easily take them all. Will was tugging at the sail stays, slightly unsteady as he stood on the rocking vessel. It was time to fall back.
The Wesmen had lost their appetite for the fight. Thraun ran at small groups who scattered, keeping them away from the beach. Hirad and The Unknown moved backwards across the sand. More lightning from the fingers of Denser, more Wesmen fell, faces blackened, eyes gone.
‘Get in and we’ll push out,’ ordered Hirad. Arrows flew the gap across the beach, clattering off Ilkar’s HardShield. Hirad grinned. The Raven slick as ever, an unshakeable unit.
When he hit the water, he turned as did The Unknown, running and jumping through the shallows to push the stern of the boat on which the three mages and Will sat, the cold water shocking his muscles to new life.
‘Tell me if they start following us,’ said Hirad. More arrows bounced from the shield. The boat moved through the gentle tide and waves, the wind bringing nothing more than choppiness to the Inlet this near the shore. Behind him, he heard splashing and in the boat Will straightened. Hirad turned. Three Wesmen ran at them, circling axes above their heads and roaring battle cries.
To his left, The Unknown tapped his blade into the water, the normal ring of steel on stone reduced to a splash and muffled grate on the shingle below. They waited but the Wesmen didn’t make it. From their right, the water exploded upwards and Thraun surged from the surf he’d created to bear one down into the water, fangs deep in his thigh. A shout rang out from the shore and the others turned and ran, their kinsman left to float in as the tide dictated, his blood slicking the moonlit water.