Ravensoul (19 page)
The sphere dropped like a stone, impacting the ground and the enemy, bulging at its base before exploding in a deluge of blue fire. A hot wind rushed out, forcing Sol to turn his head briefly. The sound of the detonation rattled overhead, a thunderclap in a clear sky.
In its midst the invaders had been obliterated. Sol could see nothing of the three who had been walking in front of the beasts, nothing at all. One of the two beasts had let out a brief wail but now both huge corpses burned blue, the flame eating them to ashes faster than the eye could see. Grass, bush and tree had been scorched in an instant. Through the clouds of smoke all that could be seen was the machine, glowing red in the heat, its seams turning white.
The sound of metal straining and rivets popping echoed across the land. The shell of the machine was expanding. Sol put his hand up to his eyes to protect them from the fierce heat the Jalyr’s Sun had caused. He could see masts buckling and melting, funnels falling and the links of chains turning to drips of molten metal. A metallic screeching and grinding scattered the watching mounted guard. Everywhere men and women clamped their hands over their ears.
Steam and an oily smoke erupted from bursting seams and through the torn openings of funnels. The blue fire continued to gorge on the metal, eating quickly through the shell. A dull thud was felt through the ground. In the side of the machine a dent had appeared, as if smashed there by the fist of a giant. The next instant it bulged back out with an agonised tearing sound.
‘Down!’ yelled Sol. ‘Shields. Shields!’
He dropped to the ground, dragging Hirad with him. He put his face to the dirt and covered his head with his hands, praying everyone was following his lead. The machine exploded. A scream was torn from Sol’s lips, lost in the teeth of the detonation that roared overhead, filling the sky.
He dared a look. Ash and dust were a thick, choking cloud. Ripped metal sheets whistled overhead. Others sailed high into the sky, turning and spinning. The air was hot, painful in the lungs. The blue of the mana fire was gone, replaced by the orange and yellow of burning wood and glowing metal. All around him pieces of the machine were beginning to fall to the earth, slapping onto the ground and into defenceless bodies.
‘HardShields up,’ said Ilkar and Erienne together.
More debris drummed onto the outside of their dual shield, harmless now, bouncing or sliding to the ground around The Raven. Sol could hear other shields being cast. He could hear the screams of the wounded too. They would have to wait just for a moment. He rose to his feet and brushed himself down, giving Hirad a helping hand when he was done.
Denser lay where he was for a moment before rolling onto his back and spitting dust from his mouth.
‘HardShield,’ he said, getting gingerly to his feet. ‘I think you’ll find you mean Orsyn’s Cocoon.’
Ilkar just laughed. ‘Call it what you like, Denser.’
The air had stilled and Sol turned back to the devastation the Xeteskian spell had wrought. Small fires burned all over the ground and the base of the machine flickered with dozens of flames.
‘We need to see to the wounded.’ Denser was behind him, talking still.
‘Agreed,’ said Erienne. ‘A somewhat unexpected result, wasn’t it?’
‘Indeed,’ said Denser. ‘I hope no one is too badly hurt. Something wrong, Sol?’
Sol didn’t reply. He began walking towards the husk of the machine. Unless his eyes were deceiving him, burning parts and charred debris were disappearing, plucked by an unseen hand. So were the bodies of the beasts.
‘This can’t be good.’
The wreckage of the machine blinked out of existence, leaving baked earth beneath it and runner marks as the only evidence it had been there at all. Sol stopped and began to back away. At the edge of his hearing there was a whine like the distant buzzing of bees.
Fifty men stood before him, no more than a hundred yards away. Big men. Eight feet tall and more. Armoured from head to toe. Another fifty. Then another hundred. Another harvesting machine appeared behind them. Sol was rooted to the spot. He could hear Hirad shouting from just a few paces behind him but could do nothing but stand and stare.
Every one of the enemy had something in his hands. Not a sword nor a spear but surely a weapon of some kind. They raised the weapons and pointed them at Sol, at The Raven, at the whole Xeteskian force. And they began to march.
The Unknown swallowed.
‘Oh shit.’
Chapter 13
The south walls of the college rocked once and simply crumbled. Heryst, standing on the wide raised courtyard of Lystern’s tower had not even seen what had hit it. It hardly mattered.
The enemy had reached the city boundaries and not even paused for breath. Terrified people ran before them. The few who stood up to them had been trampled underfoot, rendered to dust. A swathe of destruction two hundred yards wide and expanding angled directly towards the college gates. Buildings had rippled and fallen. He’d seen streams and teardrops of pure white light streaking out from the approaching attackers.
Mages had dropped spell after spell on them. And all it seemed to do was bring more of them to the fight. Twenty armoured soldiers walked lazily over the rubble they’d created. In their wake came the machine his mages told him was sucking the mana from the air. The Heart of the college was next.
College guard and mages streamed into the lower courtyard below him. City folk were running in the opposite direction, fleeing north, heading out of the city.
‘Volley!’ he yelled into the tumult, unsure if anyone could hear him to relay his message. ‘Volley!’
In truth, his orders were immaterial. Order existed but barely. Archers, the precious few he had, were firing at will. A truly pointless exercise it seemed with shafts bouncing off armour wherever they hit. But still they tried.
The noise seemed to intensify with the heat belched out by the machine. Another cloud was forming above it, crackling with energy, shot through with green light, draining away the power of Lystern, college of magic. Heryst fought the urge to cry, to turn and run from his utter helplessness. He was surrounded by his leading mages and every one of them looked to him for direction.
‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘Give them everything you’ve got. Pour fire and ice on them. Take them down. They can’t reinforce forever.’
Mages began casting and Heryst did too. A wildness gripped him and he found he did not care if what he did stopped them or not. He just wanted some of them to die at his hand. Heryst had always been an accurate and efficient mage. His casting was sure and quick; IceBlades were his favourite attack.
He targeted the centre of the enemy line, brought his hands together palms up and sides touching, and blew gently along the line of his fingers. The casting fled away, multiple flechettes of ice, flat, needle-pointed and with razor-sharp edges, flying to their mark. Heryst kept his hands steady. In the smoke and dust the enemy would not even see them coming.
Moments later they struck, snipping through armour and biting deep, pushing and burrowing before the heat of the target body rendered them useless. The enemy howled in pain. Blood spurted and streamed from countless wounds in his chest and head. He dropped his weapon and put his hands to his helmet. He fell to his knees and pitched forward.
More spells poured in from the upper and lower courtyards. More ice and fire, deluging their foe. Three more were cut down, two bodies burning where they lay. Lystern gathered a little confidence. Heryst prepared to cast again. Once more his preparation was smooth.
The enemy continued to advance, curious light chasing itself across their armour, illuminating what looked like runes or figures. Heryst chose his target and cast. The Blades struck the enemy’s armour, which flared blinding white in response. Heryst shut his eyes reflexively, opening them again to see the armour of every invader beginning to pulse.
In moments the figures were obscured by the glare coming from the lettering covering their bodies. Tongues of light lashed out on the crest of a wave of force. The tower of Lystern rocked on its foundations. Below Heryst, men and women were screaming. He had never seen such carnage. Heads, limbs and body parts littered the ground where just a heartbeat before sixty and more mages and archers had been standing. Some had survived the onslaught but the enemy turned on them. White light like teardrops poured from the complex rods they carried, tearing into the helpless wounded, blowing them apart.
‘No!’ screamed Heryst.
‘Time to go, my Lord,’ said Kayvel, returned from the dead and still standing by him though his new body was hardly more healthy than the one in which he had died.
‘We must fight.’
‘We cannot, Heryst. It is as I told you. They are too strong. Cut the head from one beast and ten more appear.’
All the energy, all the strength and belief flowed from Heryst and he sagged, letting the sound of the machine and the dying cries of his own people wash over him. From the upper courtyard mages still cast. One section of the courtyard wall exploded inwards. More died. It was a procession.
‘Then what can we do?’
‘The only thing that is left. Get to the Communion Globe and warn the others. Tell them to run.’
Heryst nodded, direction giving him something to cling on to for just a while longer. He ran from the courtyard shouting to his people to run, to save themselves in any way they could. The rumble of falling masonry was loud in his ears. The stonework shook beneath his feet. The tower of Lystern was coming down.
Heryst took the long spiral staircase two steps at a time. Everyone he met he ordered away from the college. Down beneath the still-beating Heart he went to the chamber of the Communion Globe. Outside the door two frightened-looking guards remained at their posts.
‘There is no hope,’ said Heryst. ‘Go. Save yourselves if you can. Do not fight. Run north.’
‘My Lord, we are sworn—’
‘I release you from all such bonds. Go. Please.’
He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Peace descended. All he could feel was the rumble of the approaching machine and all he could hear the distant crump of collapsing stone. Not long now.
‘Xetesk. I must speak to Xetesk.’ Heryst half-threw the nearest mage from his chair. ‘Enact the ward. Lock that door.’
He sat down and placed his hand on the silk.
Sharyr had retired from the research and casting of dimensional magics after the demon wars. The fact was, he couldn’t stand casting at all after it was over. His hands weren’t steady, his mind wasn’t sharp and he had simply had enough. But when Denser asked him to be master of the Xeteskian Communion Globe, he had felt it was a job he could safely accept. Not difficult and yet commanding great respect among the colleges and even the elves.
Since the failure of the Globe on Calaius, Sharyr had spent much time in the chamber, set away from prying eyes, deep in the catacombs. Rumour had it that not even Dystran knew where it was but Sharyr didn’t believe that for a moment.
They had not raised a whimper from the elves.
Sharyr was not an old man, though like every veteran of those terrible days he surely felt like one. He’d managed to keep his hair, an achievement of which he was proud. But still the nightmares plagued his sleep and tripped up his bladder. One day he was certain it would all fade away. One day.
He sat in one of the six low chairs with his hand on the silk, on call just in case he should be needed to help channel messages through to Denser out in the field. Just like his last conversation with Heryst over in Lystern. The enemy would be at their gates now. But their Globe was still active and stable. In Xetesk they could feel it.
‘What if the Calaian Globe isn’t actually down but the focus of the spell has shifted for some reason,’ he said as the thought occurred. ‘We assume a certain shape to their construct, and it is that we cannot find. What if we should be looking for a slightly altered shape. We should think what the construct might look like if it was, you know, just ever so slightly tuned out or something.’
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