He turned on his heel and walked back up the gentle grassy slope to his horse, his footman coming to attention and handing him the reins. Behind him, the mage was already issuing orders. Gresse smiled as he walked beside the younger man, hurrying to keep up. The Wesmen would not reach Gyernath or Understone easily.
‘And what of the rest of the KTA now?’ asked Blackthorne as they rode together towards the castle, bodyguards behind them.
‘Too busy squabbling over my lands to help us or too pig-headed to believe the threat is real. Distrust of the Colleges is habitual,’ said Gresse.
‘And historically wise.’ Blackthorne turned to him. ‘What have you done with your people?’
‘At Taranspike?’
Blackthorne nodded.
‘They’re still at the castle but under instruction not to resist any attack. I’ve told them it isn’t worth it. My sons are there to see them safe, they have my seal of authority and they can stay in Korina at my expense if necessary. He won’t hurt them if they surrender.’
‘Pontois?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm.’ Blackthorne frowned. ‘I won’t forget this, Gresse.’
‘It is for Balaia, not just for you,’ Gresse reminded him.
‘But you are the only man with the balls to stand beside me,’ said Blackthorne. ‘It will give me great pleasure to reciprocate when you reclaim Taranspike. It was scum of the calibre of Pontois who killed the KTA and left us with no real defence against what we now face. His greed has shut his mind and he will be called to account. I, personally, will see to it.’ He paused, his face softening, much to Gresse’s surprise. ‘Assuming we survive the coming storm, that is. But for you and me, my friend, it is time to put our feet up in front of a large fire, take the best wine my cellars have to offer and await the sound of the horns.’
The Barons spurred their horses towards Blackthorne Town.
Chapter 27
Understone’s fateful morning broke dry, but heavy cloud was blowing over the Blackthorne Mountains towards them. At first light, Darrick’s cavalry mounted up and began the move to the pass. In front of the slowly advancing column walked thirty Xeteskian mages, young and old, all wearing the insignia of the Lord of the Mount on red tunic and shoulder - a tower atop a crown, edged in gold, embroidered on black.
The sound of voices had stopped as the cavalry formed up behind the mages, The Raven at its rear. All that could be heard were the sounds of hoofbeats, the nervous whinnies of horses and the flap of five hundred cloaks in the breeze.
Darrick sat tall in his saddle, proud and determined. To be appointed the first general of a four-College force for over three hundred years was an honour he could never have conceived even two months before.
But now, in front of him, thirty Xeteskians awaited his command, and behind him, five hundred horse would charge into the pass at the drop of his sword. The cavalry were split on College lines, each centile having its own defensive mages to cast hard and spell shields and provide the light to see them through the pass. The livery was mixed: green for Lystern, shades of deep blue for Dordover and Xetesk and yellow for Julatsa. Not ordered enough for the trained military mind but imposing for all that.
At the rear of the column lounged The Raven and their horses. Hirad, Ilkar, Erienne and The Unknown stood in loose formation around a still pale but more talkative Denser. Jandyr, Thraun and Will, whose grey hair now covered much of his head, spoke amongst themselves. Hirad allowed a half-smile across his face, seeing parallels with the early days of Richmond, Ras and Talan. They would take more part, of that he was sure, so long as they lived. And of that, he wasn’t.
‘What are they going to do, exactly?’ asked Hirad. ‘I mean, whatever it is, it’s going to be impressive, right? There’s thirty of them after all.’
Denser shrugged. ‘It’ll be something to watch.’
‘Oh come on, Denser, you can do better than that,’ said Ilkar. ‘They’ve been researching for twenty years, you must know something. ’
‘Ah, Ilkar,’ said Denser, moving closer to Erienne, ‘there you go assuming our research teams are as forthcoming as yours. Don’t forget, in Xetesk, new spell construction and mastery leads to Master status.’
‘But if you haven’t heard any rumours, you can take your arm from my waist.’ Erienne smiled. Denser’s arm stayed where it was.
‘I just don’t want to spoil your surprise, and if I’ve heard right, it’s going to be something like you’ve never seen.’
‘Elucidate,’ said The Unknown, who still said little and never strayed far from Denser’s side.
Denser pushed out his bottom lip. ‘Right. Well, all I’ll say is that it’s dimensional, it’s incredibly difficult to control and, if my hunch is right, it’ll be wet.’
‘Wet,’ said Hirad.
There was a contemplative quiet.
‘Wet,’ said Hirad again.
Denser smiled. ‘Just watch.’
Darrick gave the instruction to cast. Twenty-one mages stepped forwards, forming three sides of a square. The lead mage gave the command to mana-form and at once, all their heads dropped but their hands reached out as if gripping something too heavy to hold. Closed-eyed, they leaned back against the invisible grip. There was a moment’s calm. Denser grunted as the mana shape developed.
‘This is powerful,’ he said.
The mages started walking towards the pass. There was no movement from within.
‘HardShield up.’ A trio of Julatsan mages raised their defence around the vulnerable Xeteskians.
Twenty yards from the black maw of the pass, the arrows began to fly, bouncing harmlessly from the core-strength Julatsan hard shield. The mages stopped walking, still concentrating, still developing the mana shape.
Denser, who had attuned his eyes to the mana spectrum, marvelled at the shape of the spell. It mapped a pattern at once random but with a perverse sense of rhythm and symmetry. And it was huge, covering a space in the air which totally obscured the pass, the path in front of the casting mages and the hills rising either side.
‘I have never . . .’ he breathed.
‘It’s incredible,’ agreed Ilkar.
‘Unstable,’ said Erienne. ‘I only hope they can hold it.’
‘What does it look like?’ asked Will.
It was a deep, pulsating blue, edges shifting and changing, mimicking the outline of the Blackthorne mountain peaks high above, then swarming to depict oceanic power. It was shot through with streaks of orange, which flowed ceaselessly through the whole, joining, spiralling, splitting. To a mage, it was beauty incarnate; to everyone else, an inconceivable mystery.
A rank of archers moved up quickly as the first Wesman appeared at the pass entrance, sword in hand. He disappeared just as quickly. Bows strung, arrows nocked, the archers waited for the inevitable charge.
Perhaps twenty Wesmen ran from the darkness, heavy furs bouncing on their bodies, braided hair flowing backwards, their shouts echoing along the path and their eyes wild beneath steep brows.
The archers fired. The shouting stopped. The survivors turned and fled.
‘Deploy,’ said the lead Xeteskian immediately afterwards.
It began with a horizontal line of red light suspended above, and ten yards in front of, the entrance to the pass. A heartbeat later, it was joined by three more, forming a perfect square some fifty feet each side, hanging in the air. The lines fizzed and crackled but held rock steady. Behind the square, the mages swayed backwards, arms outstretched, hands gripping mid-air. The angle was crazy; they should all have fallen but the mana shape held them.
‘Connect and open,’ ordered the lead mage. There was a buzzing in the air and the lines of the square revolved through a dazzling spectrum of colour. Two mages were hurled from the square to lie motionless in the dirt and mud, smoke rising from clothes, skin and hair. Next, a moment’s silence so deep it hurt the ears. And finally, the awesome sound of water obliterated the peace.