‘My Lord,’ he said.
‘Calm yourself,’ said Blackthorne. ‘Tell me what you see.’
‘The allies are not far ahead, they are along the banks of the River Taalat no more than a mile distant. The city is close. But there are others closing in on them. I cannot be sure but I would say they are Xeteskian. Mages. There are few but they move with great purpose. My Lord, I would stake my life that they aim to attack.’
‘And do the allies outnumber them?’
‘Ten to one, my Lord.’
‘Then . . .’ Blackthorne trailed off. Everything became awfully clear. He turned to his men. ‘The allies are going to come under spell attack. For ease, split down college lines. Dordover, run to them, warn them off but don’t get too close, Luke go with them, take four of our people. Ride hard. They may not see you early, that’s why I need Dordovans behind you making a racket. Lystern, come with me. We have some mages to kill.’ He swung into his saddle. ‘Oh, and we’ll be running and we’ll be shouting too. The time for quiet is at an end. Come on!’
The band ran up the slope, Blackthorne at a half-canter at their side. Luke and the other riders had ploughed off and were already over the slope and heading hard towards the Dordovans. Blackthorne breasted the rise and saw it all laid out before him. The allies, oblivious to the threat that approached them from the south-east, the Xeteskians, and he was certain his scout was right, riding quickly towards their goal, directed by familiars, flying above them.
‘Let’s go!’ shouted Blackthorne, and set off down the long slope after the Xeteskian riders.
He was well in advance of the foot soldiers but he had three of his own about him. It didn’t matter if he was killed, so long as he disrupted for long enough the casting he was sure was coming. He closed the gap steadily but the Xeteskians were well ahead, their familiars now high in the sky, hovering over the allies who were, he could see, beginning to shift, unease rippling through them.
Way to his left now, Luke was flying along, hair streaming out behind him, one arm waving wildly. Blackthorne fancied he could hear the boy’s shouts.
‘Just don’t get too close,’ he said to himself.
Ahead, the Xeteskians dismounted and formed a tight group, swordsmen remaining mounted, cantering around in a protective ring. Behind him, the Lysternans were making a game attempt to keep up but he was already fifty yards ahead and pulling further clear.
A pressure beat down on his ears and his horse slowed dramatically, its head rocking from side to side, its flanks shuddering. A black line appeared in the sky, quickly resolving into half a dozen such lines, crossing to make a star that dragged cloud to it in great swirls that thickened and darkened.
‘No, no!’ Blackthorne shouted and urged his horse on but it was reluctant to move.
Ignoring the growing pain deep in his ears, Blackthorne dismounted and began to run on towards the waiting horsemen whose own mounts had suffered the same discomfort as his; the loose mage horses had bolted, heading away to sanctuary wherever they could find it.
Blackthorne could still see down the slope to the allied camp, where men were now running in all directions. Unwilling horses were being mounted and people starting to scatter. A half mile from them, Luke had been forced to stop.
Above them all, the star opened like the petals of some malevolent flower. For a heartbeat, Blackthorne thought the spell must have failed. No lightning was disgorged, no inter-dimensional power bit the ground. But this was not BlueStorm and in the next instant, he was forced to his knees by a high-pitched whine in his head that flattened his strength and threatened to blur his sight.
He clamped his hands over his ears but it made no difference, yet looking up, he saw that he was one of the lucky ones. The allied camp had been the target and there, the spell struck with appalling force. The river rippled and bounced in its bed, flowers and bushes were pressed down, their leaves and petals driving away as if propelled by some unseen hand.
And the men and horses. Oh dear Gods, the men and horses. Like the trees near which they stood, they sagged, helpless and writhing. Those that could, shouted and screamed. It was impossible but it seemed that they grew in size, inflated against their clothes and their skin. Men wailed and gasped, horses kicked at the air, trees ripped along their trunks, their leaves falling like autumn. And when the pressure became too much, they burst.
Like being detonated from the inside, they exploded outwards and upwards, just lumps of flesh, bone, shivered wood and skin. The debris filled the air like a cloud tinged pink and still the spell was not done as it ripped up the ground too, catapulting rock and earth high into the sky then shutting off.
Instantly, the pain eased and a fury gripped Blackthorne. He drove himself to his feet and called his men to him. And when they were all standing and ready, he charged. They bellowed their rage and their disbelief at what the Xeteskians had done, their swords whirling around in their hands, catching the sunlight.
Ahead of them, the mounted soldiers forced their horses into order and rode at them. Blackthorne felt possessed of the energy of a teenager. He rolled under the blow of a horseman, came up on to his knees and savaged his sword through the legs of the next beast past him. Not waiting to see what he had done, he rose and ran on, slashing out at another rider, feeling his blade connect he knew not where. He had one target in mind and one only.
The mages were in no condition to cast or to defend themselves but it would hardly have mattered otherwise. Blackthorne and his men fell on them like wild animals, carving through hands that tried to protect heads, splitting skulls, slicing stomachs and puncturing chests, groins and backs. And above, the familiars who had directed it all, screamed and fell as their masters died. No one was spared, no one escaped and the blood soaked into the green grass, staining it as black as the robes of the men they had slaughtered.
But that was as nothing to what the Xeteskians had wrought. When he was done and the exertion and shock fell on him like a cloak too heavy to wear, Blackthorne walked to the scene of the spell and looked on it. He felt detached from the horror and that was surely the only way he could have stayed standing and not fall to his knees, vomiting his guts into the river.
Scraps of flesh lay everywhere. It was impossible to distinguish man from beast. Blackthorne had visited an abattoir once. The waste buckets would have been full of pieces of meat this size. Chunks of gristle and bone that were no use for anything but grinding down for dog food. He could barely believe that this had ever been men.
He turned to see his men gathering behind him. Many had succumbed and were sick, others had let swords drop from nerveless fingers while they stared in complete incomprehension. It only took a moment to see that none of them could go on. Not right now and perhaps not ever. So he gave them an alternative.
‘We must take news of this to Dordover and Lystern,’ he said, his voice thick and shaking. ‘Xetesk must be stopped. Not at Julatsa but at its very heart, in the college itself. This power can never be used again.
‘Look at what they have done. Hundreds of men with no chance. Remember what you have seen here, remember why you will want to fight at the gates of the Dark College again.’
He turned and led them away.
‘Contact cannot be made,’ said Dystran, sitting by the bedside of his old friend Ranyl.
The master was fading fast now and perhaps would not even see out the battle. His voice was brittle, every cough brought up fresh blood and his face was grey and terribly thin. He had not eaten in two days and even a sip of water was taken with the knowledge of certain pain. But still he clung on and those eyes reflected the pin-sharp mind inside his failing body.