He was at a loss. To all intents and purposes, Xetesk’s new enemy had done their work for them. That should have made them an ally. But Tessaya was not about to offer his hand to any of those that he saw and that still emerged from the slit in the sky, scattering through the city and the lands beyond.
Not one of them had shown the slightest bit of interest in the Wesmen gathered outside Xetesk’s college gates. And for that he was glad. Because something was badly astray with what he was seeing. This wasn’t the work of mages. The cold in the air was unnatural and it smelled bad. And there was an evil in the way the creatures moved and attacked, in the way they sounded and in the cries of the Xeteskians as they died, if die they did.
Part of him wanted to remove his men from the area, return to the Heartlands. But in all truth he could not. He refused to turn and run from the new invaders; and indeed felt that would be futile, so fast did they travel. Far more than that though, he was in sight of realising the dream of the Wesmen. To throw down the Towers of Xetesk. Their defiance had been comprehensively broken but what had replaced it was clearly a power of considerable strength.
For the first time in many years, he did not know what he should do. So he waited. Waited while the noise died to a whisper within the walls and the screams that had echoed through the city had ceased. And while the chill in the air deepened, the glow of blue light from the slit in the sky spread and the sense of evil pervaded the walls behind him and the mind of every warrior standing with him.
They spoke in low tones, sang tribal songs and stared at him and the college. He knew they were scared but not one would run, not even in the face of an enemy they had no idea how to fight.
‘My Lord, look!’ shouted a warrior.
A renewed hush fell over the two thousand. From behind the college walls arose six of the creatures. One, huge, half as tall as the walls and truly awesome, was at their head. It had the body and head of a man but was tentacled from the waist down. The tentacles wavered like an anemone, propelling the creature through the air. Those grouped around it all had wings, tails and flat features in cold dead faces. All of them were hairless and had adopted blue colouring though flashes of reds and greens rippled across their flesh.
Tessaya drew his blade and gripped it hard.
‘Don’t flinch,’ he shouted. ‘We are the Wesmen. We fear nothing. ’
He heard his words shouted back at him and he nodded, a fierce smile cracking his features. He watched the creatures which approached fast, on a wave of cold. The giant one settled onto its tentacles in front of him. It was completely odourless.
‘We are the new masters here,’ said the creature. ‘You will submit to our rule. You will not bear arms and you will offer all your subjects for sacrifice. We will take as we please. It is the way.’
‘No one rules the Wesmen. We will fight you and we will prevail.’
Tessaya struck out with his blade. He saw the sword cut deep, he felt the resistance of the creature’s flesh, but when he ripped the blade clear the wound healed while he watched. Pain flickered momentarily across its face.
‘You cannot fight us,’ said the creature. ‘You will be the first. Your people will learn to respect us. There is no other way.’
The creature reached out and touched Tessaya above the heart, gripping. A frown creased its face. It pushed harder. Tessaya stumbled a pace and was pushed back upright by the men behind him.
‘What is this?’ hissed the creature. ‘Your soul is mine. All your souls are mine.’
Tessaya laughed loud and in its face.
‘Demons.’ He spat on the ground, recollecting the Easterner word from the stories and rumours. ‘Do you really know so little? You cannot touch the Wesmen. The Spirits protect our souls.’
‘Then we will break the Spirits before we break you.’
‘It is a battle you cannot win.’
The demon stared at him for a moment, turned and floated away back to the college. An uneasy calm fell over the Wesmen. Tessaya looked back to the towers of Xetesk.
They were clever, these Xeteskians. The demons were susceptible to magic but stamina for offence was finite and the enemy had overwhelming strength. But they had worked out quickly what it was the demons feared and had set it in front of them as a barrier. And for all their force of numbers, the demons respected it and had backed off.
Whatever the casting was, demons died within it and so remained outside of it. There had been very few times in his life when Tessaya had wished he understood magic but this was one such. He envied the potential it gave them and he was filled with a curious impotence. The fact was that these Easterners could kill the demons, or damage them at the very least, while he with all his passion and strength could not.
The sun was dipping behind the towers before he had seen enough. There came a moment when the barrier had sapped the wills of the demons for the time being and they had turned their minds to the recently enslaved populace. Tessaya had no desire to join them.
‘The mages will not die easily or quickly,’ he said to his nearest lieutenant. ‘Our opportunity for today has passed.’
‘And perhaps for ever,’ said the warrior.
‘There will be other days and the demons fear us,’ replied Tessaya. ‘But for today, we are finished. Call the tribes. We will withdraw. The city belongs to the demons.’
‘Camp at Understone?’
Tessaya nodded. ‘But with a forward camp within sight of the walls. We must not lose touch. Something extraordinary is happening. Sound the fall-back.’
Dystran watched the Wesmen go and felt deserted. The ColdRooms deterred the demons for now but he needed his every ally and his erstwhile enemy had surely become one.
They had something, they must have. Because the demons didn’t, or more likely couldn’t, take their souls. Dystran was damned if he knew what it was. But their departure marked the passing of the last vestige of what could laughingly be described as normality on Balaia.
He wondered what they would do. How far they would go. However far, it would not be enough. Strange. He almost felt sorry for Tessaya. Know it or not, the Wesmen lord’s fate and that of all his tribes depended on whether magic survived. Another day, he would have laughed at the paradox. Today, though, he had lost his city and most of his college. His mages and soldiers had died and those that remained were few and scared.
Never mind Tessaya, he had to get his devastated people through just one more day. And then the next.
‘Gods, Ranyl, how I need you now.’
But Ranyl, like so many, could not hear him.
Chapter 8
‘Ilkar!’
Hirad sat bolt upright in his bed, the sweat pouring from him. He was soaked in it. Just like in the early days of his life on Calaius. But this was nothing to do with acclimatisation. His heart was pounding so hard his throat hurt and he was quivering all over. He rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair. He closed his eyes briefly but the images replayed and he couldn’t control his breathing.
With a shiver playing down his back, he swung his legs from the bed and stood on the matting. He heard voices elsewhere in the house and craved their company. In two years he had learned enough elvish to get by. In fact it was a language he enjoyed and these days when Rebraal visited the village, the two of them spoke more in the elf’s tongue than Hirad’s.
He pulled on a shirt and loose trousers and walked out of what had once been Ilkar’s room in his parents’ house, heading for the veranda and what he hoped would be friendly faces. Outside in the cool but still humid air deep in the Calaian rainforest, Rebraal and Kild’aar, a distant aunt by some means Hirad couldn’t quite understand, were sitting and talking. Drinks steamed gently on a table between them. A fire burned in the pit in front of the house, smoke spiralling into sky that was clouding for more rain.