The shield lattices were not designed for such pressure. Denser saw them flare green, deflect the first wave but crumble under the second. And still the spell came down. Sheet after sheet, deluging the area in front of the gates where the Lysternans had stood. He could see survivors running, saw the dead collapse, saw men with their faces burned off walking blind, and others who became so much ash on the wind that howled down after the lightning.
BlueStorm. Those were the words he had read in the Laryon hub. That was what he was witnessing. And Dystran would be behind it all. All Denser could think of was that the same would be happening over the north gate. Xetesk had struck the most enormous blow. Hirad’s shout told him it was only getting worse.
The spell finished with a splitting slap of sound, the rents whipping shut, the BlueStorm cutting off, leaving an afterglow in the dawn sky, smoke and dust like a fog around Xetesk and the smell of smoke and carnage in the air.
But the fog wasn’t so thick he couldn’t see what was happening now. The gates had opened. Xeteskians were running out to join their forces, swelling their numbers and charging ahead east and north in an arc that would take in the camp. Above the walls, mages flew, safe from spells now, like the familiars that accompanied them. Dozens of them breaking away in as many directions, their chittering laughter on the breeze, their sense of delight at destruction clear in their cavorting.
‘Denser, let’s move.’
The Unknown and Hirad both had men across their saddles, snatched from the lines as they turned to run. The lucky two were pushed away, The Unknown trotted up and handed Denser his reins and the mage remounted.
‘We’ve got to join up with the elves,’ said The Unknown. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here.’
The Lysternan force at the east gate had been all but destroyed. The Raven trio rode hard through milling survivors and those who tried to come to their aid from the camp. The Lysternans were in rout, fleeing back into the trees and beyond. Denser prayed they would regroup.
The Unknown led them along the base of the slope that marked the edge of the panicked Lysternan camp. The command post was deserted as they galloped by, only a couple of hundred yards ahead of the Xeteskians who were advancing on foot, any horsemen riding behind the lines.
But above and ahead, the familiars circled, diving on any enemies they found, crushing skulls with their inhumanly strong hands, biting deep into flesh and goring cuts with their tails.
The Unknown turned them just east of north before they reached the corner of Xetesk’s walls. The roar of battle echoed from the direction of the north gates, smoke and dust hung and blew above the gatehouse and Denser could clearly hear the thunder of a cavalry charge.
Breasting the corner, the situation became distressingly clear. The joint Dordovan and Lysternan force there was scattered, destroyed or in full retreat. No order existed and the Xeteskian forces were driving north fast, chasing down the injured, slow and shocked. More familiars flew, more mages in the air directed the battle but at least here they met some resistance.
Izack and his cavalry, their shield and offensive mages in their centre, were performing heroics in the face of the rout. In charge after charge, Izack broke the Xeteskian advance, targeting weaker areas of the slightly disorganised lines, getting out before the enemy could close around him. As he watched, a concentrated Orb shot out from one of the cavalry mages, catching a familiar full in the chest. It screamed and fell, its master by its side tumbling from the sky, his hands gripped around his head.
Denser should have felt sympathy for the mage. He’d experienced the pain of losing a familiar himself. But all he felt was the lift of a tiny victory over the college that he had loved for so much of his life.
Even Izack couldn’t hold back the tide. Behind the soldiers and horsemen came wagons and carriages and mages on horseback. This breakout had been well-planned and executed with typical Xeteskian ruthlessness. It threw all the allied plans into chaos and, more urgently, made Julatsa incredibly vulnerable. The elves would have to travel fast to arrive with enough time to raise the Heart. But even if they did, would it matter? The Xeteskians wouldn’t stop. Somehow they had to bring enough defence to the college to keep them at bay and then drive them back. He wasn’t sure that was possible.
Denser switched his attention ahead of him. They were riding well ahead of the remnants of the Lysternan forces whom he could still see scattering east and north. The way before them was clear, across open fields and away towards the first cover on their run to Julatsa.
Before long, they had left the slaughter outside Xetesk behind them. The Xeteskian charge had slowed a little, as it had to if it was ever to become organised. Having won such a devastating victory and having dispersed their enemies beyond any immediate chance of renewed cohesion, they could afford to take time.
Half a mile beyond the battlefields, he saw what he’d been waiting for. Quick, disciplined and organised, the elves were moving north. Riders in the midst of the advance meant Darrick, and Thraun. He spotted him, carrying Erienne in front of him, holding her head against his chest.
They had scouts forward, ClawBound pairs ran the flanks and at the rear, TaiGethen marauded. They moved with purpose and represented Balaia’s best hope of holding the Xeteskians at bay. It was difficult to guess how many there were; their movement was fluid, they dropped in and out of sight against changing backgrounds and into trees and tall grass.
Whether the estimated requirement of two hundred mages were with them he doubted. His best guess was that he was looking at a total of less than four hundred warriors and mages. But that hardly mattered now. All that had to be done was to preserve the mages they had. Every one that fell on the run north was a blow against the survival of Julatsa.
But like Hirad and The Unknown, who rode ahead of him, Denser would not let Ilkar’s dreams die.
Chapter 31
Vuldaroq strode through the cloister corridor of Dordover, seeking out Heryst, whom he had been told was in the Chamber of Reflection, a room of polished granite slabs, fountains, small waterfalls and wicker furniture. The perfect place to relax. Or to contemplate disaster.
Heryst was sitting with his head in his hands. It had been a shattering blow, leaving Xetesk firmly in command of the battle. Unless fortune favoured the allies, the war was now Xetesk’s to lose.
Reports from outside the city were still sketchy but it was clear that both the eastern and northern siege fronts had collapsed completely. South and west, the allied lines had fallen back, fearful of a similar fate, leaving Xetesk unmolested. Xeteskian forces had also withdrawn inside the walls of the city, comfortable now that not enough force could be mustered to mount a serious threat, at least for the time being. They were right, too.
Heryst looked up when Vuldaroq’s sandalled feet slapped across the marble floor. The Dordovan lowered himself onto a two-seater bench, the wickerwork protesting at his weight.
‘Anything new?’ he asked, keeping his voice respectful and quiet. Though they had both lost men, Lystern had been the harder hit overall and Heryst, he knew, would take every death personally.
‘We had committed so much. Why did we have no clue what they were preparing?’
‘A message was relayed but none of us could have guessed the magnitude of what was cast at us. The Raven knew something. The word is, they tried to help.’
‘I heard!’ snapped Heryst. ‘Sorry. I heard. And when the spell was forming they tried to clear the battlefield and even saved two men. Damn but it’s hard to hunt them.’
‘We cannot stop now.’