‘Yes sir,’ said the squad leader. Moments later, The Unknown was beside him, his blade making the space he needed, cleaving the air in a tight upward arc, punching a Wesman from his feet as he tried desperately to block. The enemy warrior crashed into those behind him, his axe shaft splintered, his hands bloodied. Hirad smashed a fist into his next victim’s face and drove his blade straight into the Wesman’s stomach.
‘Sir?’ Hirad shook his head. ‘Are you sure he knew who you were?’ He drove his sword at the face of an enemy who blocked it with his own, jumping back as he did so.
The Unknown risked a glance across at the barbarian, his double-handed blade sweeping through in a defensive arc, connecting with nothing but keeping back everything. Hirad saw the big man’s mouth turn half up as he shrugged.
‘He just recognised authority when he spoke to it,’ he said.
‘Arrogant bastard.’ Hirad smiled.
‘Big sword.’ The Unknown winked and hefted his blade. ‘It usually does the trick.’
The press on the Julatsan line had eased just a little. The arrival of The Raven had energised the flagging Julatsan guard and given their adversaries pause for thought. There was not quite so much determination to breach into the square. An air of anxiety flickered across the faces of the Wesmen facing them and still any arrows bounced from the HardShield, now almost certainly held by Ilkar.
Denser’s FlameOrbs exploded into the partial stand-off, flitting over the heads of the first Wesmen and landing in the thick of their number, inflicting maximum damage, panic and chaos.
Though it was a sight he’d seen many times before, Hirad still had to steel himself against the horror of the magical flame that ate through armour and flesh like acid, burned with the intensity of a blacksmith’s forge and was as hard to douse. Those Wesmen who could, scattered from the effect of the flames, leaving their comrades to tear at clothes, beat at flames that consumed skin and hair and die in screaming agony.
Hirad and The Unknown were ready for the fallout as the instinctive move from the centre of the spell pushed unprepared Wesmen towards them. They led the Julatsans, striking hard and fast, cutting the enemy down as they all but stumbled on to the Julatsan defenders’ blades.
And before Denser’s magical fires guttered, HotRain was falling among the confused ranks of Wesmen who broke and scattered backwards, their wounded comrades and dead forgotten in the rush to dodge the tears of flame.
Hirad laughed. ‘On your way, Wesmen!’ he called after them. ‘You’ll never take the East.’
He and The Unknown stooped among the fallen, their daggers finishing those who still lived before they cleaned their blades on charred furs and scorched cloth and swept up discarded axes, knives and swords, prising or chopping away locked fingers.
‘We’ve bought a little time here,’ said The Unknown, glancing behind him as he reformed the line with Hirad, passing his haul of weapons to soldiers standing ready. ‘But just a little. Look at that movement.’ He indicated with a lazy sweep of his sword, flicking the heavy blade as nonchalantly as he might a stick. Hirad followed his gaze.
The Wesmen had reformed some thirty yards distant, a massive gap in the context of this conflict, at a crossroads where a narrow alley crossed the main street. Behind their somewhat bemused defensive line, Wesmen poured across the street, heading north towards the College. The numbers weren’t great but it could be assumed that the movement was being mirrored on the opposite side of the southern market.
‘The last thing we need is to come under sustained attack before we’re into the defence from the College walls,’ said The Unknown. ‘We need more weight further up the chain.’
Hirad glanced over his shoulder. The square was emptying rapidly, now populated principally by city guardsmen and soldiers.
‘I think we just need to leave,’ said Hirad. ‘If we don’t, we’ll soon be overwhelmed anyway, defence from the College walls or not.’
The Unknown nodded. ‘Agreed.’ He raised his voice just a little. ‘All right. On my mark, we move backwards. Denser, Erienne, look after Ilkar.’
The Julatsans, under The Raven’s calming voices, began to back away into the square, triggering an instant reaction among the Wesmen who advanced, crowding into the street, still cautious and thirty yards distant.
‘Shield down,’ said Ilkar almost immediately. ‘Wait. This is no good; they’ll overwhelm us if they charge, we need to keep them further back. We need static ForceCones covering every exit to the square. Any mage that can cast, do it. Hirad, trust me.’
‘Always,’ said Hirad. Ilkar began casting. ‘I’ll stay with him. The rest of you find those mages.’
Erienne hesitated, made a half move but Denser stayed her. The Unknown turned to the Julatsan squad leader, talking over the shouts he could hear across the square as the retreat continued.
‘You heard him. We’ve got to buy more time. Run.’ He moved to stand by Ilkar’s free shoulder, Denser and Erienne forming a mage line behind the trio. ‘Now is not the time to split us,’ said The Unknown. ‘We are The Raven.’ He held his sword in front of him, point tapping rhythmically on the stone at his feet.
A calm came over Hirad. He smiled and faced the enemy. Beside him, Ilkar’s low intonation stopped and he spoke the command word. The ForceCone, invisible and impenetrable, hurtled towards the advancing Wesmen.
‘HardShield up,’ said Erienne.
‘Ilkar is secure,’ added Denser.
Numerical superiority belatedly overcame fear of magic and the Wesmen charged, angry yells spilling from their lips, axes and swords catching the first rays of morning light. But a mere handful of paces in, the charge was abruptly blunted as the leading warriors smashed into Ilkar’s ForceCone which barricaded the street so effectively.
Wesmen bounced from its invisible surface, stumbling back and sprawling, those behind them, not willing to believe what their eyes showed them, hurdling their prone comrades only to discover the truth as noses were bloodied and axes sprung from hands.
Bewilderment replaced anger for a while as confused men picked themselves from the ground, gathered up weapons and moved cautiously forward again, hands outstretched, until they encountered Ilkar’s barrier.
Hirad watched them with a kind of detached amusement, confident in both the Raven mages’ spells. The Unknown, he could sense, was monitoring the square behind them, his eyes no doubt assessing defence of other entrances and his mind calculating when the time would be right to run.
In front of Hirad, the Wesmen quickly appraised their problem. A few ineffectual strikes against the Cone did nothing but risk sprained wrists and the arrows loosed bounced or snapped on impact, springing back towards the rapidly growing force behind.
The archers switched their attention to the boundaries of the Cone, testing its height by sending arrows up at ever steepening angles until they cleared its upper edge, plunging down merely to bounce from Erienne’s HardShield, choking off the fledgling cheers of the Wesmen. They fell silent and dropped away a couple of paces. They knew they were up against magic they couldn’t penetrate but knew also that they had one last weapon. Time. No spell lasts forever.
Hirad checked The Raven. Ilkar and Erienne were deep in the maintenance of their spells. Denser stood with a hand on Erienne’s shoulder, his eyes open but unfocused, monitoring the castings. The Unknown had backed up a few paces to get a clearer view of the square in its entirety. He was frowning but not scowling. Things weren’t critical.
So Hirad turned back to the enemy, watching their growing frustration. He caught the gaze of a Wesman warrior. He grinned broadly. The man had a smear of blood on his face and the skin of his knuckles was broken though he gripped the shaft of his axe hard. His eyes, dark and brooding under heavy brows, stared from a square face pocked by weather and skirmish. Thin lips, large ears and a mass of unruly hair framed his scornful facial cast. Hirad cocked his head, let his expression harden, then straightened his posture.