The Raven Collection Part 49

'You'll have to ask The Unknown about that,' said Ilkar.

'There's not a lot to say that you'll understand,' said The Unknown. 'I just knew Styliann's power over them was less than that of the bond between them and me. They won't ever attack one of their own unless their Given's life is threatened. We didn't threaten Styliann's life.'

'And would they have killed him if he'd killed you?' asked Ilkar.

'No. He is their Given and they can never hurt him. Who cares? Styliann believed me.'

Hirad laughed again. 'Nice work, Unknown. C'mon, let's take a look at the lake, get Will some water.'

The attack hammered in along the entire length of the Wesmen lines as they marched through flat areas of gra.s.sland, flanked by pockets of dense forest. It followed a storm of arrows, HardRain and DeathHail, forcing the Shamen to use valuable stamina raising hard and magical shields.

A thousand riders surged into the exposed enemy, hoofs churning mud, earth and blood, blades flashing in the midday sun. The noise was like heavy rain on a slate roof, growing in intensity. Blackthorne's men wheeled after their first charge, disengaging to re-form. The horns sounded again and Gresse's force levered into the other flank, spreading disarray.

Gresse felt like a young man again as he kicked his horse into the suddenly less smug, tanned faces of the Wesmen. He cut left and right as he drove forwards, splitting the face of one man and slicing through the shoulder of another. Blood filled the air, misting in front of his face and spattering his legs, saddle and chest. Noise, tumultuous, filled his ears.

Around him, his men clattered into the enemy, the shouts of Wesmen trying to gather a defence mingling with the cries of the dying. He urged his mount onwards, pushing one man aside with a blow from his shield and fielding a spear jab on the guard of his sword. The Wesmen were falling back under the onslaught, their line order threatening to break, confidence taken apart by the rampaging horses and the flashing steel of their riders. Gresse began to scent victory.

The horns sounded again and he wheeled his horse through a half-circle and ploughed out of the carnage, trampling the dead and dying under hoof. Looking left and right, he counted only a handful of riderless horses and he shouted his delight as he galloped away to re-form out of Wesmen bow range.

Down came the spells and arrows again on the Wesmen ranks, but this time more of them stopped short, bouncing from shields or flaring darkly on magical contact.

A third time, the horns sounded, signalling the push on the Shamen, so far defended by their warrior guards, and Blackthorne came charging back in, mages in attendance, shielding as many men as they could.

By now, the Wesmen had regrouped and stood ready, drawn into tight defensive cells. Blackthorne's spearmen levelled poles and clattered into the enemy, making less ground but fragmenting the outer defensive lines. The swordsmen followed them in, Gresse seeing Blackthorne's blade rise and fall, spraying blood in all directions.

There was a hum in the air, cutting through the din of battle, a.s.saulting the ears and setting teeth on edge. Horses, skittish and with nostrils flaring, threatened to rear. From the fingers of every Shaman issued whip-like lines of black, flailing the air and burying themselves in horse and rider alike.

Agony. Death in terror and pain unimaginable. Where the spell found an unshielded body or breached magical defence, man and beast died by the score. As Gresse watched, a line of dark caught a rider in the midriff and tore up his body, unpicking his leather, stomach and chest like a tailor's knife through fine cloth. His intestines gushed through the rent in his body, ribs shattered, and his dying cry was silenced as the dark reached his neck.

Elsewhere, holes were punched clear through bodies, flesh was burned or eaten aside and the tide of the battle turned with stunning speed. Blackthorne whirled his sword above his head and the horns sounded full retreat. Gresse barked orders to his men, and the Baronial cavalry kicked away from the scene of devastation, leaving the blood of the east to mix with that of the west, the jeers of the Wesmen ringing in their ears.

Glory was turned to darkness.

Chapter 31.

A dry and warm night was followed by a cloudless dawn, the rain of the preceding day a distant memory.

Denser had held a brief communion with the lead mage at Understone and at least they knew that Styliann had not been exaggerating. To the south, and moving at worrying speed, the Wesmen were three days from Understone, and Blackthorne's efforts were yielding little but the blood of his own men. But worse, some thirty thousand Wesmen and Shamen were a day from the western entrance to the pa.s.s.

'And you said the Wytch Lords haven't yet regained their full strength?' said Hirad.

Denser nodded. 'When they are walking and fully focused, the Shamen's power will be completely unstoppable.'

'If it isn't already,' said Ilkar.

'How far to the Torn Wastes?' Hirad asked.

'Two and a half days' ride to the borders, perhaps another hour to the pyramid,' replied Thraun.

'That is cutting it very fine indeed,' said Ilkar.

'And it a.s.sumes we aren't held up on the way,' added Thraun.

There was a contemplative quiet. Hirad pictured a headlong dash into the maw of sudden death - around any corner, Wesmen could be waiting in great numbers.

'We could do with your cat now, couldn't we?' said Will ruefully.

'I could do with him all the time.' Denser's smile was thin and cold.

'How long can Darrick's men hold Understone Pa.s.s?' asked Hirad.

The Unknown shrugged. 'Who can say? We haven't seen the Shamen magic. All that's working in our favour is the narrowness of the entrance. There can't be an attack on a wide front and that gives our mages the chance to shield effectively.'

'Hmmm.' Hirad leaned back against the Temple steps, draining his mug. 'And can Jandyr ride?' The elf was being left to rest.

Erienne nodded. 'Wake him any time, just don't ask him to fight or fire his bow.'

'How long before he can?'

'In an ideal world, a day, no more. But we're riding hard and it'll pull at his wounds. If I don't get the time, you don't get your bowman.'

'Great,' said Hirad. 'Well, I guess we shouldn't hang around here waiting for the end of the world. Let's go and create it for ourselves.' He clapped Ilkar on the shoulder and rose.

Inside half an hour, they were riding for the Torn Wastes.

To Darrick, it was all very simple. Ride the secondary trails to the Wastes and there drive hard into the flanks of the Guardians and Keepers of the Tomb. Kill anything that got in the way and see The Raven back to the pa.s.s, victorious.

But two hours after dawn of his third full day in Wesmen lands, a third of his men were dead, another fifty were injured and his mage support was in tatters. Stopping to a.s.sess the damage fully, his body shaking with rage and humiliation, he still couldn't see how the Wesmen could have known their route.

Seventy bowmen, concealed from the path, launching waves of death and disorder that cut down horse and man alike. At the first wave, the cavalry broke ranks, charging left and right up the shallow incline into the shrubland behind which the trap had been laid. More lost their lives as arrows hurtled in from close range before, at last amongst them, the cavalry wiped out the Wesmen archers. He considered himself very fortunate not to have run into any Shamen.

Darrick surveyed his forces, reading the shock and dismay in their faces. He dispatched the worst injured back to the pa.s.s before consulting the lead mage. The Xeteskian was now in charge of only seventeen.

'Can you hold hard and magical shields on the gallop?'

'What's your plan?'

Darrick shook his head. 'We have to push on. If we decide to leave the trails, we may as well turn back now because we'll be too late. I want to turn this around, drive hard the rest of the day and surprise them with how deep we are into their territory. If we meet another ambush, I don't want to pause in the gallop.'

'That's high risk,' said the Xeteskian.

'I know, but we've got to take the initiative. They should never have been that well set. There is no way they could have known our route. No way.'

The mage raised his eyebrows. 'The Wytch Lords must be closer to walking than we thought.'

'Will you attempt the shield?' asked Darrick.

The Xeteskian nodded. 'Of course, if it's what you wish.'

'It is. Right, I've got to talk to the men, bring them up for this. It's going to be one h.e.l.l of a chase.' Darrick smiled. 'Two days to save Balaia. Ready?'

The Lord Tessaya stood with his Shamen on the hills outside Understone Pa.s.s which he had so recently relinquished but was surely soon to retake. Thirty thousand of his countrymen, some enemies less than a year ago, were camped within a few hours of the pa.s.s, while a dozen Shamen under protection from three hundred of Tessaya's pa.s.s survivors were moving closer to the pa.s.s itself. A further five thousand Wesmen were ready to pour back under the mountains. It would be a sweet moment.

'I want them slaughtered to a man for what they did to me. But bring me Darrick alive. I will personally oversee his very slow death manacled to the stone he thought to take from me.' The Shamen nodded; one issued instructions. 'How long before we are in position? '

'We will be awaiting your instruction as the sun reaches its zenith, Lord.'

Tessaya looked to the sky: two hours. Two hours and then maybe he could erase the sounds of the terrified as the sea from the sky crashed through the pa.s.s. The echoes of the water beating off the walls and sweeping away his people, their cries, their shouts and their pleas dying with them as they were driven into the chasms. So many would never be found to rest on pyres of honour. So many never had the chance to fight and die as they had dreamed.

But the towering act of cowardice would be avenged as his people forged into the east to take as they pleased. For the first time in days, Tessaya smiled.

'I will mount up and lead my people back where they belong,' he said. 'We will soon all be drinking the blood of College mages.'

The Raven rode hard through unforgiving countryside as the sun rose into a partly cloudy sky. They hadn't seen or heard any pursuit since leaving the Temple. The Unknown could no longer feel the Protectors and had no idea whether they were heading east or west. But though they were making good progress, the way was difficult, the horses would tire quickly and the risk of accident was ever present.

Their princ.i.p.al concern, though, was Jandyr. The elven bowman was struggling. After a night in which he was kept asleep under Erienne's WarmHeal, he had p.r.o.nounced himself able to ride, though his white, drawn and sweat-sheened face told The Raven about the pain he was suffering.

For an hour, he seemed to be standing it well, but as the morning wore on, he slowed more and more, spending much of his time flanked by Denser and Erienne, or Ilkar and Erienne. The mages, all with well-tuned healing ability, watched anxiously as the wound in his shoulder and back pulled and strained, blood soaking into his leather and shirt and dripping down his left arm, which hung strapped to his side.

At the first rest stop, and with the horses being checked, fed and watered by Thraun and Will, the rest of The Raven gathered around a gasping Jandyr as he lay propped against a moss-covered boulder. They had come to a stop at the head of a valley. Below them, the hills, windblown and stark, rolled away north and west towards Parve, while behind, the forest land they'd ridden through and which had provided such good cover lay like a coa.r.s.e green blanket covering steep incline and shallow slope alike.

Perhaps a thousand feet below them, the princ.i.p.al trail from Parve to Understone cut along the base of the Baravale Valley, which bored one hundred miles between the west's two princ.i.p.al ranges of hills and mountains. Now and again on the prevailing wind, the sounds of marching Wesmen reached them while they, out of sight, sat and considered their position.

'Is there anything you can do to ease the pain?' asked Hirad. Denser paused from warming Erienne's hands and looked at her.

'Hold on,' she said. She withdrew her hands and helped Jandyr turn on to his side, giving her access to his wound. She unpicked the crude st.i.tching of his leather and, with Ilkar's help, eased the b.l.o.o.d.y jacket's parts aside, cursing at the ruination of her work of the previous night. 'The wound is pulling from the riding, there's little I can do about that. What I can do is take the pain away, but he'll not be aware of any further damage he's doing. That could be dangerous.'

'Jandyr?' asked Hirad.

The elf breathed deeply, the sound a little ragged. 'I can't ride on like this,' he said. 'The pain is getting too much and I'll hold you up. There's a choice. Either you leave me here and come back when it's over, or Erienne casts the spell.'

'You can't stay here alone,' said Erienne. 'Without treatment you won't survive.'

'Then the decision's made,' said Hirad.

'He'll need supporting some of the time. He won't always be able to hold himself upright,' said Erienne.

'What are you planning on casting?' asked Denser.

'SenseNumb.'

'That's a little strong, isn't it?' said Ilkar.

Erienne hesitated.

'What is it?' Jandyr frowned. 'It's worse than you thought, isn't it?'

She nodded. 'The bleeding is worse than it should be. The flesh hasn't knitted at all. I know you've been straining it in the ride but it should be better than it is. I need to cast SenseNumb to keep you going at all. I should be able to do more tonight.'

'Will I still be alive tonight?' asked the elf.

'I don't know,' she said. 'I haven't got a good record at keeping people alive, have I?' Tears were suddenly in her eyes and running down her cheeks. Denser put an arm around her shoulder. He looked to Hirad.

'I think we'd better get on,' he said.

Approaching the village there was magic in the air. Styliann slowed his advance and moved to the rear of the column of Protectors. Still mounted, they walked their horses in close formation, the innate magical shields of the Protectors overlapping to produce something the Shamen would have to work hard to penetrate.

After leaving the Temple clearing, Styliann had turned south, his fury undimmed following a second humiliation at the hands of The Raven. And while he saw the sense of The Unknown's words, he had already made up his mind that his route to Parve would not be at The Raven's choice of pace. If he arrived in time to distract attention from them, so be it.

He had chosen as his first target a village just inside the Heartlands which would have staged marches towards Understone Pa.s.s and, possibly, the Bay of Gyernath. The village lay less than two days from the Torn Wastes. It would be a fitting message to the Wytch Lords about where the power really lay.

'Advance,' he ordered. 'There are no innocents. Spare no one.' It was the only voice that was heard as the Protectors pushed their horses to a gallop, making an arrow formation with Styliann at its rear, already forming the mana shape for his favourite destructive spell. He smiled at the very thought of what he had just ordered.

With only the sound of their horses to reveal their presence, the Xeteskian Protectors swept into the unprepared Wesmen village. Built on cla.s.sic Wesmen lines, the village was arranged in a circle around the central tribal totem and fire. It contained about thirty buildings, fencing for animals and open-sided, roofed structures for crop storage.

The ninety-strong force divided into two around the circle, swords drawn and hammering down on the villagers, who scattered screaming in every direction. Men, women, children, no one in the way was spared the blade. And behind them, Styliann rode into the centre of the circle, spell prepared.

'h.e.l.lFire,' he said.

A dozen columns of fire crashed through the roofs of occupied dwellings, deluging victims and devastating buildings. Wood and flame filled the air. Burning figures ran from buildings, noise pounded the ears.

At the end of their sweep, the Protectors dismounted in almost balletic synchronicity and jogged back through the carnage, axes now drawn in spare hands. The village was in chaos. The dozen buildings. .h.i.t by Styliann's soul-searching h.e.l.lFire burnt fiercely, sending palls of black smoke into the sky. Survivors of the flames and the first Protector charge ran, some for the trees, some for their weapons. One marched towards the unprotected Styliann.

The Lord of the Mount slid from his horse, his magical shield formed and deployed immediately following the h.e.l.lFire, sword drawn. The Shaman cast, ten black tendrils coursing at Styliann, playing over the shield and sending lines of force around his body. The shield should have breached under the pressure. Styliann could see that in the Shaman's eyes.

'Oh dear,' said Styliann. He walked forward and punched the Shaman with the pommel of his sword. Around him, the Protectors, silent, fast, ruthlessly efficient, were firing the remaining buildings and slaughtering everyone they found, young or old, suffering hardly a scratch as they advanced. The Shaman fell back, stumbling to his knees. Styliann's kick into his face hurled him clear on to his back, where he sprawled, blood covering his nose and cheeks. The Lord of the Mount crouched by him, the terrified man unable to do anything but stare into his face.

'You will be a message to your masters, your village will be a shrine to all who follow me, its buildings left to blacken, its people carrion, rotting as they lie unburied in the sun.'

'Who are you?'

Styliann smiled. 'Dare not challenge the power of Xetesk.' He slapped the Shaman's hand from his nose and placed his own hand over the man's mouth, holding it there while casting a FlamePalm directly into his throat. The Shaman died, writhing in agony, fire from his eyes and nostrils, hair smouldering and cracking. Styliann rose, dusted himself down and remounted his horse.

'Disengage!' he ordered. He looked about him satisfied, wondering if Parve would burn as well.

'Close up!' yelled Darrick. 'Deploy shields.'

The four-College cavalry was ploughing along the main trail between Understone and Parve before turning north to come at Parve from what Darrick a.s.sumed would be right angles to The Raven. They tore down the trail and hammered into the front of the Wesmen force, stopped along the trail and barely armed and ready by the time they were hit.

'Shields up!' called a mage as the spearmen at the front of the column scythed the first Wesmen aside. The cavalry galloped through, swords slicing left and right, shields flaring as Shamen magic hit but couldn't penetrate the overlapping College spells. They didn't pause, didn't turn and didn't look back, and in their wake, seventy Wesmen would never make Understone Pa.s.s.

Leaving the main trail shortly afterwards for the northern marches, two days from the Torn Wastes, Darrick drew his cavalry to a halt and a well-earned rest stop.