‘So sum up our chances in a way I can understand,’ said Hirad, his plate still full but his appetite fading fast.
‘If Denser and Styliann can’t find any help in Xeteskian dimensional theory, we have next to no chance because we’ll have no idea of the forces operating beyond the rip. If they do, we’re still making a best guess at a mana construct brand-new to us all and will have no clear idea if it’ll work until it either does or doesn’t. It’ll require all our combined strength to cast from the ground anyway.’ He paused and looked at Hirad solemnly. ‘There is less chance of this succeeding than there was of defeating the Wytch Lords.’
‘Sha-Kaan isn’t going to like that,’ said Hirad.
‘Well, he’ll just have to live with it.’
‘Or die with it,’ returned Hirad, and he got to his feet, dusted down his trousers and leather and set off to Wingspread.
‘Who’d be a Dragonene, eh Unknown?’ Ilkar tried to smile.
‘Who’d be any of us, Ilkar,’ he replied. ‘Who’d be any of us.’
Chapter 32
They attack.
The thought pulsed around the Protectors in the dawn light. The Wesmen were advancing, their dogs and archers before them. This was no charge and Aeb questioned the tactic with his brethren.
Dogs in the vanguard, archers to weaken us, army to follow up.
As one, the Protectors brought their weapons to the ready, each masked man unsheathing double handed sword and battle axe.
We are enough to shield effectively. Aeb drove the idea around them. Concentration is everything. We are one. Fight as one.
We are one, fight as one. The mantra echoed around their minds bringing them the strength of the Soul Tank and the belief in their invincibility. They were ready.
From all sides, arrows flew and the dogs were unleashed. Their howls were drowned by the roars of the Wesmen. Think shield. They thought and the arrows bounced. The Wesmen roars faltered but the dogs drove on. Huge beasts, the size of newborn foals, their mouths thick with teeth, saliva dripping as they came. Another flight of arrows; no more than five pierced the shield and no Protectors fell. The dogs hit them.
They had counted seventy Destranas, all hungry for the kill but all fighting on their own. Those at the front of the charge leapt for neck, thigh or stomach but the Protectors saw every angle of attack. Aeb struck down with his axe at the skull of a dog that leapt at the brother next to him. Two more blades thudded into the beast’s neck and back. It died with a whimper.
Aeb, blade left lower quarter.
Aeb struck without looking, feeling his sword bite into a Destrana midriff. The thought had come as he sensed the animal, it was merely direction but it was all he needed. He pulled his axe clear to hammer it through the jaw of a third dog while his sword still skewered the terrified, crying animal on the ground to his left.
Around the circle the orders flew and the blades and axes followed them. Seventy dogs was too few by at least three hundred and those that didn’t run to hide behind the legs of their masters died without landing paw or fang on a single brother. Too slow, too obvious, too individual. It was why animals would never beat Protectors.
Quiet fell over the ranks of the army and their commander hesitated before ordering more arrows. Again the shield held and but one Protector took a wound in his thigh. He fell back to tend and direct until bandaged. Now the horns sounded and the encircled Protectors faced not a headlong charge but a careful, closed advance. Aeb could sense the nervousness as they advanced and pulsed his brothers to note it.
Their commander has no heart for this fight. We scare him. Seek those who command. Fight as one. We are one.
Fight as one, we are one. The second mantra echoed through their bodies. No thought was given to the overwhelming numbers who advanced towards them, only to the totality that was their being. The dogs were dead, their blood slicking the ground in the damp, drizzling morning. Their masters knew as never before that those first to the battle would die. It was inevitable.
As is victory. We are Given, we may not fail.
Lord Senedai fought to keep his mouth closed as he watched his war dogs slaughtered. Destranas were feared by all men, their ferocity and desire for the kill legendary. But these men, whatever they were, didn’t so much as flinch, only taking a pace back when it gave them a better angle to strike. They seemed to know where an attack was coming from before it came and, though the distance might have confused his sight, he could swear some of them struck without looking. Struck and hit. This was no wild flailing, it was ordered, accurate power.
And that scared Senedai more than anything else.
The dogs had raced on in tight howling packs and had died whining, their bodies chopped and twitching. Senedai dragged himself back to the immediate with the baying shouts of his men dying to echoes in the mist and rain. An uneasy, fidgeting quiet gripped his army. None of them had seen a single enemy fall. Now they looked to him for orders, his signallers ready, standing expectant to his left.
‘My Lord?’ prompted a Lieutenant. ‘We should not lose the impetus.’
‘I know!’ snapped Senedai, then calmed himself. ‘I know. Signal an advance from all quarters. Slow march. Let’s have them watch us massing right under their noses and fear what is about to overwhelm them. Front ranks only. Rear stand ready for my command.’
The flags went up, the horns sounded and the Wesmen advanced. Senedai’s heart thudded in his chest as he moved up behind the front ranks, shouting encouragement, exhorting them to keep a slow pace as if any near him desired to charge to certain death.
From the ruins of the Manse there was no reaction. The small force stood ready, blood dripping from swords and axes, masked faces offering nothing, bodies exuding controlled aggression. Behind Senedai, an order signalled more arrows. More waste. A flight of one hundred turned aside by the cursed invisible barrier. But there was no mage.
‘What in all the hells is going on?’ Senedai shouted, frustration burning hot. ‘Who are these men?’ he muttered under his breath, afraid again.
Forty paces from battle, the spirit chant began. Rumbling from the front lines in every direction, it rolled over the Wesmen army, setting Senedai’s skin tingling and refreshing his flagging confidence. It was the song to greet enemy steel, the song to accept death like a warrior if it should strike and the song to bind the spirits to the Wesmen nation forever.
Over and over, the growled words, only twenty in all, emitted from the lips of the army, rising to a cacophony that drowned the clashing of weapons and the tramp of many thousands of feet. At the last, the march broke, the tempo of the chant increasing, driving the warriors on. In front of them, the masked force moved, axes raised, swords pointed to the ground, prepared to repel as the Wesmen wave broke over them.
Threat hung heavy in the morning air, lowering dark with the clouds above that dispensed a light drizzle but promised a downpour.
Darrick had marched his army directly towards the waiting horde, demanding order and speed. He knew they would be watching, just as his scouts watched them, and he needed the Wesmen to report determination and confidence. So he drilled them as they marched, the cavalry marking time ahead, never once breaking stride.
In open fields a little over a mile from where Tessaya’s army camped, he brought the column to a halt. A single horn blast was followed by a tumult of orders from a hundred mouths and each man, elf and mage knew what they had to do. Defensive positions were set, a perimeter established, the command post erected and regimental lines drawn up. Mages stood by sword guards, elven eyes scoured the Grethern Forest to the south and the bare rises north. Fire and cess pits were dug, tents sprouted, animals were picketed and guarded, the quartermasters’ and armourers’ wagons emptied and stores and forges were in operation less than an hour after their arrival.