And a beat after the sound came the sight. With the power of the deep, froth flying, came a force of water the size of the square. It howled out of dimensional space, striking the ground well inside the pass. Out and out it came, ocean from a clouded sky, screaming into the darkness and surely dashing to fragments everything in its path.
Behind, the mages fought to maintain the square as it bucked and twisted in the air, buckling and strengthening as the deluge hammered out into Balaian space. The water lashed against rock, tore vegetation from its roots and smashed the very earth from its bed of ages, spray flying backwards, streams running in every direction from the mouth of the pass. Echoing from the walls of rock inside, a pounding sound rose to join that of the rush from the mouth in the sky. The tumbling of loose stone, the crack of timbers snapped like twigs, and faint, so faint it may have been a trick on the ears, the screams of men could all be heard. The power was extraordinary.
Ilkar swore softly. ‘They’ve tapped an ocean,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ve tapped a bloody ocean.’ Had he shouted, no one would have heard him as the roar battered at the ears and the sight simply blotted out the capacity for anything else.
The mages held it for what seemed an age, the exertion visible, the effort tangible. The gate was kept open for over two minutes until, as suddenly as it had begun, the stream was shut off.
Another silence that tore at the ears was followed by the rising hubbub of excited voices. The exhausted mages didn’t even have the energy to congratulate each other before collapsing to the floor, every mote of mana stamina gone.
Applause rippled the air but was silenced by a shout from Darrick.
‘Clear the path!’
There was a ripple through the cavalry line as reins were drawn tighter. The metallic sounds of bits and bridles tautening added to the stamp of hoofs and the running of feet as Julatsan and Xetestaan mages came to the aid of their exhausted colleagues, hurrying them off the path and up a gentle slope. The bodies of the two for whom the spell had simply been too much were carried away.
Darrick raised his sword. The Raven mounted up. Five hundred blades swept from scabbards, ringing the air.
‘Shield and light!’ The teams of mages cast quickly and without error, and ‘shield-up’ confirmations travelled the column, followed by two dozen LightGlobes.
‘Advance!’
Darrick dropped his sword, kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. Hoofs threw up mud, thrumming on the poor surface of the trail. The shouts of the centile commanders mixed with the clamour of horse, metal and hoof, and the cavalry column moved on, gathering pace.
And, with water still pouring from cracks in the rock above the entrance, the cavalry charged into Understone Pass.
As it happened, Gresse and Blackthorne chose to watch the start of the Second Wesmen War from a low hill three hundred yards from the beach where the landings would take place.
The horns had been sounded and beacon fires lit as dawn broke to reveal the Wesmen already in the bay, attempting to steal a march under cover of darkness. It was a move anticipated by Blackthorne, and his beach force had been at readiness three hours before first light.
The stern Baron surveyed the dense fleet of craft, ranging from rowing boats taking only a dozen, to merchantmen with a capacity running into the hundreds. It was a strange and deeply disturbing sight, compounded by the silence broken only by orders to sail and row and the noise of oars and timbers through calm waters.
Rain had swept through the bay as night fell, backed by a vicious wind, no doubt hampering the Wesmen’s start, and Blackthorne considered them to be behind schedule. He was certain they had planned to land at first light, not still be over three hours distant.
In front of them, forty mages stood, thirty to cause mayhem among the boats, and ten to maintain shields over their colleagues and the centile of swordsmen charged with routing the first wave of boats to hit the shore. Finally, invisible and anchored to the sand, three dozen explosive wards, ready to be activated in retreat, each one capable of killing a dozen men.
Blackthorne announced himself satisfied.
‘This should give them something to think about.’
The boats drew closer, prows packed with Wesmen, silent, watching. Gresse didn’t know what he expected but it wasn’t this silence. The loudest noise in his ears was the flapping of his own cloak in the breeze.
‘There must be four hundred boats out there.’
‘Not for long,’ said Blackthorne. ‘Not for long.’
Sails trimmed, oars stroking through the water, the Wesmen fleet approached the shores of eastern Balaia. The calm was eerie but a storm was about to be unleashed over the flat waters of the Bay of Gyernath.
With the fleet four hundred yards from land, the offence mages split into three spell groups with overlapping defensive support, and moved out on to the sand dunes overlooking the shore.
At the same time, the centile of swordsmen, most carrying torches, moved up and gathered around the beacon fires. Shouts of warning echoed around the bay, bouncing off the sheer walls of the mountains. Oars dug more deeply, sails were pared tighter, the fleet increased its speed.
The senior mage spoke. ‘You have your targets. Don’t wait around if you lose your spell. Don’t wait around when you have completed casting. I need you all back in the castle, fit, well and rested in twelve hours. Cast at will.’
Gresse could hear the hum of voices on the breeze as the mages built mana shapes and linked spells. The process lasted little more than two minutes, and then the fire came down.
In an area covering three hundred yards each side, drops of fire coalesced from clear air and fell like lead among the boats. A thick, driving rain of fire, spatting in the water, smoking into wood, scorching canvas and setting hair and fur ablaze. While the drops flared harmlessly against the magical shields surrounding the larger vessels evidently carrying Shamen, there was instant panic among the smaller craft.
Hundreds of small fires leapt from every exposed plank. Sails smouldered and burned, hands and skulls lit up, fear spread and discipline disappeared. In the midst of the throng, one Captain made an emergency tack to take the direct route out of the HotRain, ploughing across a smaller rowing boat. Rudders went left and right as tillermen ducked and dodged the hail of fire, sending craft in all directions, spilling warriors from port, starboard, prow and stern. The sea boiled, alive with floundering survivors, the wash of oars plunged frantically into water and the myriad fires that snuffed out as they hit, leaving spirals of smoke in their wake.
Over it all, the howls of pain, the screams of the dying, the crackling of fire and the splintering of wood. And through the carnage came the back of the fleet, unable to change course or slow sufficiently, such was the press of boats all around. On and on they came, into the HotRain, scything over abandoned burning craft and running down Wesmen in the water by the score.
The HotRain shut off as quickly as it had started, but relief was momentary. A thick pall of smoke covered a wide area of the bay and fleet, and emerging from it, and undamaged, came many of the larger ships, their occupants roaring with rage and lust for blood.
Now, FlameOrbs lit the sky. Combining the mana of three or more mages at a time and creating great depth and intensity, dozens of yellow and orange orbs, each the size of a man, arced across the sky to fall like rock weights on the spell-defended ships. Some bounced, others did not, and Gresse saw one crack a shield and splatter on the deck, reducing the three-hundred-man transport to a burning shell in an instant.
Gresse turned away. Through all his years of combat, combining magic with muscle, he had never seen carnage on such a scale. The calls of the dying, drowning and ablaze would haunt his every living day. Yes, he’d seen shields crack and magic engulf its victims before. But he had never seen an enemy so unprepared for the quantity or quality of magic thrown at it. And here were only forty mages. At the castle, there were double that number.