‘Think you can take me?’ he asked. The Wesman, apparently with a rudimentary grasp of eastern dialect, nodded. ‘Know who I am? Know who we are?’ No response. ‘We are The Raven. We are your nightmare. We are your death.’ Borrowed words but the Wesman wouldn’t know it. Hirad saw him shift his stance and retake the grip on his axe.
‘Must you?’ asked The Unknown, at his shoulder once again. ‘They’ll only run faster.’
‘Not fast enough. What’s up?’ Hirad saw The Unknown chewing his lip.
‘There aren’t enough mages in the square. The Wesmen are peppering arrows where they know we have no shields. It’s only a matter of time before one of the Cones goes down.’
‘And the prisoners?’
‘They’ve cleared the square but it’s slow going. And there’s fighting further up the secure corridor.’
‘How long do you think we’ve got?’ asked Hirad.
‘How good are the Wesmen archers?’ replied The Unknown.
Good enough.
A roar echoed through the square. Moments later, the first of the Julatsan guardsmen sprinted past The Raven’s position, heading north.
‘If we stay, we’ll die,’ said Hirad. In front of him, the Wesmen tensed, ready.
The Unknown nodded and leaned into Ilkar.
‘Ilkar, we have to leave. When I squeeze your shoulder, drop the Cone and run. Don’t look back.’ Ilkar’s reply was a slight nod of the head. Denser relayed the same message to Erienne.
‘Ready, Hirad? Denser?’ The Unknown took in their curt acknowledgements, placed a hand on Ilkar’s shoulder and squeezed. The Raven’s Julatsan punched his hands outwards and the Cone shot into the unsuspecting Wesmen before dissipating, knocking a dozen from their feet and causing momentary disarray. It was all the gap the Raven needed.
‘Run!’ yelled Hirad. And The Raven ran, Denser snatching the slower Erienne into his arms and springing into the air on load-bearing ShadowWings. Tearing left into the square, Hirad looked right to see a wave of Wesmen forging into the open space and, in front of them, a handful of Julatsan warriors and mages desperate to escape the deluge.
Ahead, the column of ex-prisoners, all pretence at order gone, stampeded towards the College while at either side of them city and College guardsmen fought grim battles with Wesmen determined to close the pincer.
The Raven trio, under Ilkar’s running HardShield, took up rear station on the chase. Above them, Denser swooped in again and again, Erienne scattering HotRain to disrupt the Wesmen charge and buy precious time. And as they approached pockets of defence at entry points to the corridor, The Unknown or Hirad barked the order to disengage to the Julatsan guard.
They gained on the prisoner column quickly, the walls of the College looming large. Great sheets of magical fire sealed the path to the south gates across the cobbled space in front of the ancient school and, mercifully, hid the mounds of bodies that rotted and stank where they lay.
They were close to sanctuary, so very close, when the last alley defenders buckled under the weight of Wesmen numbers and the enemy spilled into the street, their weapons flailing around the terrified city folk.
‘Denser, block that entrance!’ roared The Unknown as he upped his pace towards the break that threatened to trap them. Hirad swore and plunged into the crowd, his sword slashing the spine of a Wesman whose axe had bitten into the skull of an old man, killing him within sight of safety.
The Dark Mage and Erienne flew over his head. HotRain fell, this time a downpour, a curtain of flame drops, orange, red and white splashing over stone, brick and body.
To Hirad’s left, The Unknown, his momentum giving him great strength, picked up a Wesman with one hand around his neck and hurled him from the scattering crowd.
‘Run. Get to the doors. Now!’ he yelled. Behind them, the Wesmen army poured up the street, showers of arrows clattering off walls and pouring down into the fleeing Julatsans. Hirad chopped the thighs of another Wesman, stooped and picked up the child who had stumbled at his feet and ran, the shouts of the enemy firing into his ears.
‘Go! Go!’ he shouted and Ilkar dropped the HardShield and chased ahead, The Unknown just in advance of him. Over their heads, spells from the ranks of Julatsan mages arced out, fire, ice and hail tearing into the storming Wesmen army, whose charge slowed and stopped where their men were cut down by the magic against which they were helpless.
‘Close the gates,’ called Hirad as they neared and the gatemen obliged, The Raven squeezing through the gap they left. The great iron-bound wooden gates clanged shut, WardLock fizzed across the wood and the last arrows thudded in harmlessly, their impact muted by the thick timbers.
Hirad set down the child who clung to his leg bawling, his mouth wide, terrified, eyes streaming tears. The Raven warrior wiped and sheathed his sword, feeling the gazes of his friends on him, their mouths turning up, smiling through their gasps for breath. He shrugged and patted the boy ineffectually on the head. The volume of his cries increased.
‘You’re safe now,’ Hirad said. ‘Quiet down.’
Denser landed close by, Erienne tumbling from his grasp to snatch the toddler from Hirad’s leg, holding him to her chest and patting his back, his arms thrown around her neck.
‘Do you know nothing?’ she asked him, but there was admiration in her voice, not anger.
Hirad smiled. ‘Not a great deal,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’ He looked about the College courtyard. It was teeming with bewildered but relieved city folk, some of whom had the presence of mind to thank their rescuers before being ushered away by College guards anxious to clear open spaces at risk from projectile attack.
Above The Raven, who leaned against the walls, the spell barrage had ceased and outside the Wesmen clamoured, kept back for now at a safe distance, wary of magic. But soon, the false calm would be shattered and already men had fought and mages had spent themselves and it was not yet full dawn.
And before they could join the battle, The Raven had texts to find but, more importantly, a duty to perform. One that wouldn’t wait.
Hirad indicated the infirmary.
‘Come on, Raven, we have a Vigil to observe.’ The mercenaries walked solemnly across the College courtyard. Of Thraun, there was no sign.
Chapter 26
Styliann felt a tiny pang of sorrow for what he had led the Wesmen into.
The Protectors had run on, indefatigable, resting only when the Wesmen behind them had to pause, and pushing on before their pursuers began again. Throughout the chase, the Wesmen never fell back by more than a few hours and Styliann was impressed by their sheer stamina and determination.
But, with the sun at its zenith on the third day of the chase, he had met the Protector army he had summoned from Xetesk and now he waited. The scouts he had posted estimated the Wesmen force to be in the region of four to five thousand but, even though he had perhaps a tenth that number of Protectors at his disposal, he knew he would win, probably losing no more than forty of his charges in the process.
Styliann surveyed the land on which he had chosen to fight. He sat on his horse on a small rise to the right of his main force of Protectors. In front of him, the ground rose gently to a small plateau, on the other side of which lay a steeper slope up which the Wesmen would soon be marching.
To the left and right, tracking through areas of low crag and woodland, a dozen Protectors swept for forward enemy scouts while two groups of forty lay ready for the flanking order when battle was joined.
That left almost four hundred to take the core of the Wesmen battle front. They stood absolutely silent below the lip of the rise, waiting for the pulsed command from Cil to surge over the top. Should everything go as planned, mêlée would be joined before the Wesmen archers could string their bows.