Like every day, he wondered at the conditions on the outside where the demons ruled practically unopposed. How much worse it must be for those kept alive out there; though much of the time he wallowed so far down in his own desperation that the possibility others could be in a deeper plight was inconceivable.
So little news came in from the outside. Less and less as the seasons turned and resistance inexorably weakened. At first it had been relatively straightforward. They had unsealed the catacomb vents and been able to get people into the countryside. In the early days, the demons had only attacked a few population centres. Food and water in the wilds had been plentiful and survivors had been brought into the security of Xetesk’s ColdRoom network. They’d even driven the demons back from the walls of the college at one stage and taken back some of the city.
But the situation hadn’t been sustainable. The use of magic was like a beacon to any demon and he had lost mages in sudden overwhelming attacks across the mage lands. Mages he could ill afford to lose.
Slowly, they had retreated as numbers dwindled as a result of demon attack and, ever increasingly, illness and a breaking of the spirit that left no room for life. There was only so much a healing spell could do and regaining mana stamina was fraught with danger. Xetesk had had just three small areas of the catacombs the demons had still not found where a mage could sleep outside a ColdRoom, replenish and cast. And always under the eyes of guards ready to pull them the few inches back to relative sanctuary should they be discovered.
Now, the Xeteskian sphere of influence covered just the tower complex and the catacombs north. Everything else belonged to the demons. Scouting parties still searched for food and fuel but their sorties were the stuff of nightmare. Only the knowledge of starvation kept men venturing out under the rolling ColdRooms they had perfected when all they had in plentiful supply was time. But nothing could guarantee their safety. It was genuinely incredible what men and women could achieve when there really was no other option.
At least they had water. Wells had been dug in the catacombs. And that meant they could eke out what little food they had into thin stews as well as drink their fill. They could heat their food too. Stones fired with focused Orbs or FlamePalm were more than adequate but another drain on stretched mana reserves.
Dystran looked out for as long as he could at the flitting shapes of the demons about their business in Xetesk and beyond; and at the slash in the sky that was the most hated symbol of Balaia’s almost total subjugation. From irritants the size of kittens to the tentacled monstrosities they had dubbed ‘enforcers’, all had their purpose, all had their place. That fact of their organisation maddened him because it had become so clear that in their thousand-year association with demons, they had learned nothing about them. If only the reverse had also been true. If only.
But it was the people that he saw that depressed him. And it dragged at his soul when he caught one of them gazing up at the tower. Without spirit, without hope. Abandoned but still walking. And still building, growing, eating and sleeping. Still, he was convinced, breeding. They had to of course. There was that part of the human that denied even the most cataclysmic situation. And above that, there were the demons, seeing to it that all was done to their design.
It was the reason he came up here and shed tears every day and why all who survived looked out every day too. He had to remind himself why he still fought because in the base of the complex hope fled so easily. He knew what he was looking at down there. It was a farm.
Dystran turned from the window, weary despite the early hour. He caught sight of himself in a mirror and shuddered. Gaunt. Sunken eyes and cheeks. Skin flaking and blotched. Patchy beard and hair hacked short as pitiful defence against the lice. A quivering line for a mouth, lips pale and split. And he was one of the fitter ones. He had no choice. Soldiers and mages got the greater shares of food.
He signalled to the two soldiers who went everywhere with him.
‘Let’s go,’ he said. He spared a glance across at Ranyl’s tower, shuttered and abandoned. ‘Gods be thanked that you didn’t live to see this, old dog.’
‘My Lord?’
‘Nothing.’
They began the descent to the dome. Below them, teams of mages kept ColdRooms linked to provide best coverage of as wide an area as they could. He had seventy-eight mages, a hundred-plus soldiers and another two hundred-odd souls to protect. Pitiful.
Not far down, the sour smells of the last resistance of Xetesk hit him. Ventilation was not enough alone. They could not clean or scrub adequately, they had to bury their waste in catacomb tunnels but they could not lime it. Around four hundred people living and breathing for the most part in tight conditions because they felt there was safety in numbers. Gods burning, it was one of the few things they could cling on to.
There had to be something they’d all overlooked. Something that would give them the spark they needed to strike with purpose, not merely seek to exist another day. After two years it seemed faint hope.
A thought struck Dystran then. There had to be a reason why the demons seemed content to let them live like this. How long had it been since a concerted attack, a season or more, surely? It didn’t make sense and it irked Dystran that it had never occurred to him to wonder why before now. The life force of a mage was so prized by demons. Their connection with mana made them burn bright. For a demon, comparing a mage to a non-mage was a fine Blackthorne red wine as compared with vinegar.
Yet every day, they must know they risked mages dying. It could be that they were not as numerous as he assumed but he wasn’t sure that would make enough of a difference. Gods drowning, but they no longer even sacrificed city people in front of them to make them surrender.
Something in the demons’ plans meant that keeping all the college cores where they were, helpless but alive, was the right way to go. It was a change in strategy from the constant attacks of seasons gone by. Now it was like they were waiting. But for what?
There had to be information and knowledge buried somewhere.
‘Where are Suarav and Chandyr? Where’s Sharyr?’
‘All in the banqueting hall, my Lord.’ A sad irony at breakfast time.
‘Good. Take me there.’
It was time for another raid on the library.
Pheone took her shift like they all did. And every moment outside the college grounds was terrifying. It tore at her gut and tripped up her heartbeat. It gnawed at her belief and concentration. The knowledge of what she was doing was what kept her focused. It was the only thing that could.
She slipped out of the tunnel entrance and into the heart of the city. It was a tunnel they had dug without the aid of magic and because they would otherwise starve, so tight was the ring of demons around them. She had ordered another dug too. One day, the demons would find this one. They found everything eventually.
And to think that Julatsa should consider itself fortunate. When the demons had flooded Balaia, they had been given warning. A panicked Communion from a Dordovan mage had been picked up by Pheone’s spectrum analysts. It had been cut off abruptly but had brought them precious hours to prepare. Mages had been called back into the college grounds. The grain store was cleared and the contents moved. City guardsmen were invited to leave their perimeters and beats. Livestock had been driven into the courtyard.
It was a time when Pheone had found her heart to be unyielding. They had assessed quickly how many souls they could shelter and had taken them from the streets. Whole families where they could. Smiths, builders and healers too. No sentimentality. It was only about survival.
They had plotted the ColdRoom coverage, ensuring wells and stores were well protected, and had withdrawn everyone they wanted behind the repaired college gates. The council had pleaded with her to let them in as panic had gripped the city riding on rumour and hearsay. The mayor had promised them the wealth of Julatsa for personal salvation. They had threatened to storm the gates but they didn’t have the strength. Julatsa’s mages were backed by Al-Arynaar swords, bows and magic.