‘Spreading,’ said Sharyr. ‘Something’s wrong. The alignment isn’t firming, it’s failing. How can that be . . . Prepare to release.’
‘No,’ said Dystran. ‘Believe. Hold on for full term.’
The top edge of the front rippled violently. Dystran was buffeted by a sudden howl of wind. From the opposite side of the tower, he heard a cry of pain.
‘One out, one out!’ called Sharyr. ‘Release on my mark.’
Dystran pursed his lips. Before him, the StormFront bucked and twisted. Its grey colouring was shot with dark lines. Bolts of pure energy seethed across its surface or grabbed at the ground. The intensity of noise grew sharply, battering at the ears. It was the sound of a thousand dragons breathing fire.
‘Release!’
A moment’s pause and the StormFront surged outwards, precisely as designed. An expanding wall of Balaian elemental destruction, focused and powered by the energy of inter-dimensional space. It would dissipate in no more than seventy to a hundred yards, minimising the risk to ordinary Xeteskians. But before it became little more than a puff of air, it would obliterate everything in its path.
Scant feet from the walls, the StormFront guttered and halted. Dystran staggered under the weight of the backwash through the mana spectrum.
‘What—’ he began.
It guttered again, rippled across its surface then the whole front delivered a blistering white light that scoured the night from the city in an instant. Through the patterns across his tortured eyes, Dystran saw the StormFront blink and suck back towards its starting point, the constant light casting harsh day over Xetesk. At dreadful speed, the circle wound back. The entire construct reversed until just a twinkle of blue mana light remained in the air just above and outside the college gates.
Blackness flooded the void left by the light. Dystran blinked hard, trying to shift the shapes that flowed across his vision. In monochrome, he could just pick out the sparkle of light over the gates, the fires indicating the Wesmen and, too bright to be anything other than a problem, the glimmer from the previous night’s CobaltFury that had never dissipated.
Hypnotised, he watched a strand of blue emanate from the glimmer above the city walls and trace across the sky towards the college. It was pencil-thin and quite steady but Dystran sensed such menace inside it that it made him shudder.
There was no sound he could hear above his own breathing and the crackle of fires and hiss of lanterns and torches. Every waking eye would be transfixed by the line being drawn above the city. Every voice was mute.
‘Sharyr?’ hissed Dystran. ‘Answers. Quickly.’
‘I have none,’ said Sharyr, his voice weary.
Dystran would have looked at him but he was reluctant to leave the spectacle. The points of light were almost joined now and the sense of foreboding growing.
‘It’s going to be a gateway,’ said Dystran. ‘But to where?’
‘You can’t be sure,’ said Sharyr. ‘It’s probably just something caused by the meeting of our elements and inter-dimensional space.’ Sharyr’s tone suggested he didn’t believe what he was saying.
The line of light reached the walls of the college. Alien sound abruptly split the nervous quiet. From the windows of towers, open doors and shadowed recesses, familiars flew. Two dozen and more, all that remained in the college. Gone was the mischievous laughter and the chittering contempt to be replaced by hollow keening and long, high-pitched and querulous wails.
Shivering, Dystran watched their flight pattern. It was tightly formed, one leading all the others in a helical pattern around the beam of light. They dispersed back into the sky after a few turns, rising in graceful arcs before plunging back towards the college, voices changed, sounding warning and alarm.
One by one, they disappeared back where they had come but the last diverted and flew to the balcony where Dystran stood. It hovered in front of him. Dystran considered he had never seen a familiar display fear before.
‘Prepare,’ it hissed. ‘Save the masters. They are come.’ And it dropped from sight.
Dystran’s eyes snapped back to the beam.
‘Oh dear Gods, what have we done?’ he breathed.
Already, the first signs of panic were evident in the grounds of the college. People were running and shouting to no discernible purpose. Dystran fancied he could hear doors slam and lock. As if that would make any difference. Around him, the alignment team were pressing towards the balcony doors, eager for an escape.
‘I tried to warn you,’ said Sharyr. ‘The alignment was never favourable enough for the power we had to use. A breach was surely inevitable.’
‘They must have been waiting,’ whispered Dystran.
‘Ever since we first cast BlueStorm, I expect,’ said Sharyr. ‘Congratulations, my Lord Dystran. You have killed us all.’
Fierce cold washed out from the beam. Teeth ached in chilled gums, hair frosted and eyes dried out and stung. Through the frozen mist filling the air, Dystran could see the beam move. Edges appeared along its length and blue light spilled out. Not the deep blue of Xetesk but the livid colour of the demon dimension.
And out they spilled in their tens, hundreds and thousands. Multiple shapes and innumerable sizes and colours. Dystran saw demons the size of small birds flit off on buzzing wings. He saw others that would tower over houses, floating. He saw tails and tentacles. He saw necks like those of dragons, the heads of disfigured men, animals and other forms totally alien. Snakelike demons shimmered in the sky, bulbous-skulled demons roared across the firmament.
Still they poured out on a wave of blue demon-light. And when they had finished their cavorting, they grouped together. Four main groups and dozens of smaller ones fizzing and diving, setting off to every point of the compass, or so it seemed.
Dystran couldn’t move. His mouth was dry and his body shook.
‘Do something!’ yelled Sharyr.
‘Nothing,’ mumbled Dystran, gesturing uselessly. ‘There’s nothing to do.’
‘Organise, damn you!’ Sharyr grabbed his lapels and shook some sense back into his mind. ‘We have to work together or we’ll all die, do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Dystran. ‘Yes. ColdRooms. Make ColdRooms. And work. Research. We must fight. Muster in the mana bowl.’
Thousands of demons descended on Xetesk. Their approach was soundless and awesome, on a wave of freezing air. Others were surely on their way to Dordover, Lystern and Julatsa. They were the centres of mana energy and life force. The jewels the demons had craved for so long.
‘Go,’ said Dystran. ‘Let me face them. They will want to talk.’
‘Talk?’
‘Yes, Sharyr. Demons always want to talk.’
At the head of the advance, three detached themselves and floated towards the tower. Sharyr took the remnants of his team and fled. Dystran, his heart thrashing in his chest, his consciousness threatening to desert him, faced the new enemy. The three were monstrous. Better than thirty feet tall, they had roughly human torsos but beneath their trunks tentacles writhed. Colours flashed across their sexless bodies, rainbows chasing each other to nowhere.
‘You are not welcome here,’ managed Dystran. ‘Respect the ancient laws and treaties. Return to your dimension and seal the rift you have made.’
‘The time of humans has passed,’ said one, chest rippling and writhing. The voice was deep and carried far and wide. ‘We rule here now.’
Chapter 7
Hirad awoke with the sense of unease he had learned to trust. He lay where he was for a time, breathing in the rich scent of hay around him in the barn loft, seeing the rays of the dawn sun through the gaps in the planked walls and hearing the sounds of horses. Quite a number of horses.