‘Call yourselves mages, I don’t know . . .’ Hirad’s humour at Ilkar’s irritation faded as Thraun loomed into view.
Someone else had brushed his hair into a ponytail; its untidiness told Hirad that. It was swept back from red-rimmed eyes which gazed blankly from a drawn and terribly tired face that betrayed every tear he had shed and all that were still to come. Hirad’s heart lurched as he remembered all too clearly the aftermath of Sirendor’s murder. There was nothing to be said but silence was not an option.
‘The pain will ease,’ he said. Thraun looked at him squarely before shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the ground once more.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I let him die.’
‘You know that’s not true,’ said The Unknown.
‘As a man, I could have stopped them but as a wolf I could only really understand my own fear. I let him die.’
Hirad opened and closed his mouth, discarding his reply for something more practical. ‘Can you ride?’
Thraun nodded, very briefly.
‘Good. We need you, Thraun. We need your strength. You are Raven and we will always stand by you.’
Another nod but his shoulders had begun to shake. ‘Like I stood beside Will and let him die?’ he managed though his throat was clogged.
‘Sometimes even our best is not enough,’ said Hirad.
‘But I didn’t give him that. I was lost and because of that Will is dead.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Erienne.
Thraun favoured her with a bleak stare. ‘Yes I do,’ he said, repeating in a whisper, ‘Yes I do.’
Throughout a tense morning, the Wesmen mounted surge after surge as if sensing a change in the atmosphere in the College. They flung themselves at the walls with increasing fury and ferocity,.
Thousands were committed, their ladders and towers bumping against Julatsan stone to be destroyed by fire, their men by wind and hail. But still they came and, as the mages tired, the threat of hand-to-hand fighting on the ramparts came ever closer.
During a temporary lull with the Wesmen regrouping out of spell range once more, The Raven moved up to the North Gate battlements to assess the state of the day. Julatsa was being systematically destroyed, her useful materials pressed into new service, and anything else broken or burned. Fires flickered everywhere and the flattened killing-zone was widening by the hour.
Hirad turned to The Unknown as catapult rounds whistled overhead to smash into buildings and the deserted courtyard, warranting hardly a backward glance. The big warrior was staring impassively out over the sea of Wesmen, calculating their likely chances of escape while assessing the hit-and-run tactics that so drained the Julatsan mage defence.
‘Thoughts, Unknown?’
‘We’re relying too heavily on the Dordovans causing a wide disruption,’ he said. ‘If we don’t strike from this side too, we won’t break the line.’
‘Positive, aren’t you?’
The Unknown looked at him. ‘Realistic.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Well, let’s assume the Dordovans strike on a front from that red bear standard across to the bull head one there.’ He indicated two of the flapping Wesmen muster flags set about seventy yards apart. ‘We can reckon on there being an instant disruption of the line to either side of up to about twenty or thirty feet as men leave the front to fight behind them. If we can reinforce that break with an attack from here, even just a quick hit, we’ll much improve our chances. Simple, really.’
Hirad chuckled. ‘We’ve done this before,’ he said, his smile broadening at The Unknown’s quizzical frown. ‘Although you weren’t with us at the time. Trust me.’
The Unknown nodded and turned back to the Wesmen.
The attack came without warning, just as the sun passed its zenith. The Julatsan mages were bracing for another Wesmen surge when, on the northern periphery of the city, fire bloomed and the sound of falling masonry rumbled across the sky. Flash after flash threw shadow and blinding light across Julatsa, filling the day with vivid reds, oranges and blues.
Cheers went up around the northern ramparts, mages lost their concentration and all around the College faces turned and arms pointed. The Dordovans had arrived.
For a few timeless moments, there was no reaction from the Wesmen. Then, the sound of staccato orders rattled across the northern forces facing the College. Whole sections of the line detached, the Wesmen ordering defence by tribe and standard, their places taken by their fellows, the entire muster thinning. Those despatched to the rear headed away along the streets and an atmosphere of relief washed over the College just as one of consternation appeared to grip the Wesmen.
The Julatsans’ grim expressions were replaced by smiles and hope grew from the ashes of despondency. The College defenders roared on their saviours and, with the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting filtering across the city on the back of more and more arcing spells, Hirad had seen enough.
‘It’s got to be now,’ he said. He, The Unknown and Ilkar ran down the steps to the waiting party beneath the gatehouse. The Raven would ride behind a quintet of shielded mages and in front of two hundred foot soldiers. Swinging into his saddle, Hirad took in the others.
‘Ready?’ Nods asserted that they were. At a signal from The Unknown, the North Gate swung open.
‘Make it quick!’ he urged, ‘The Wesmen won’t stand around waiting for us.’
The small force rode out at a gallop towards the Wesmen who, clearly distracted by the attack to their rear, made no immediate move.
The two central mages loosed ForceCones that had been long in preparation. The twin spells battered through the Wesmen lines, hurling warriors to either side and driving the luckless to their deaths against buildings and piles of rubble where their bodies were flattened and torn to pieces. A heartbeat later, FlameOrbs arced away from the palms of the outrider mages to spread panic and scatter the sides of the cone-formed passage. The mages wheeled away, tracked by the fifth whose shield was not needed.
‘Raven!’ roared Hirad. ‘Raven with me!’
Keeping close form, The Raven sped into the gap, swords flailing to right and left, Ilkar’s HardShield over their heads and Denser and Erienne’s FlameOrbs splashing killing fire further to the sides. Only Thraun took no part. Hunched in his saddle, head down, he let his horse follow, its fear keeping it from straying.
Hirad, chopping the axe arm from an enemy, bellowed his delight at the rush. Flames rose to either side, Wesmen careered in every direction, his horse threatened to bolt at each stride, yet through the line they went. Hurled stone, axe and timber bounced from Ilkar’s shield, The Unknown’s sword flashed light and blood as it hacked a passage and The Raven tore through the chaos, breaking through the line to a cheer from the walls of the College, audible even with the shouts of the Wesmen ringing in their ears.
To their left, the Dordovans advanced, the well-marshalled column defended by mage fire, mage ice and three thousand swords and shields. The College had sent an élite.
Hirad made to join the attack, seeing the chance to inflict more suffering but The Unknown would not let his horse yield to the barbarian’s pressure to turn.
‘Not this time, Hirad,’ he shouted. ‘This is one fight we have to leave behind.’
And, with the running remnants of the Wesmen siege force ignoring or avoiding them on their way to join the last battle for the College of Julatsa, The Raven galloped through deserted back streets and out onto the trampled, muddied green of the open mage lands.
Noon. And on the walls beyond the Long Rooms, the defence broke, Wesmen pouring on to the ramparts through the breach. Below, a back-up team of Julatsan guard raced up the stairs, yelling defiance, charging headlong into the enemy, allowing those around them the time to regroup.