Ravensoul (47 page)
He turned to look out over the battlefield. A weapon sounded from close by. Teardrops ripped through a cloud of smoke. He dived left but one caught his right arm, sending him spinning to the ground. His sword fell from his hand and he cried out as a burning pain hit him with nauseating force.
Rebraal clutched his right forearm and brought his hand up to his face where he lay writhing on the ground. His wrist was smashed. The skin was blackened across his hand and down almost to his elbow. He could see gory daylight through the centre of his arm where the teardrop had cut straight through him. The smell of burned flesh clogged his nostrils.
He screamed until the breath left him. And then he dragged in another breath and screamed again. It was like nothing he had ever experienced. A crawling agony that filled his arm and his entire body. He barely felt the comforting hands on him. He could see nothing beyond his ruined limb. A cool palm caressed his forehead and the pain ebbed away.
Rebraal was brought to a sitting position. Dila’heth was in front of him. Behind her, another cone of mana struck the Garonin who had fired, but this time it seemed to slide past him. Yet the adaptation to the spell did not help him. A TaiGethen elf whirled past him, slicing a cut deep into his chest through his shining armour, and a ClawBound panther sprang and tore out his throat.
The valley side was silent but for the breeze blowing the smoke gently away and the cries of those still in pain. Rebraal swallowed and looked at his arm again. He felt sick. The wound, blackened and cauterised, looked even larger than it had the first time. He could not move his fingers and a dull ache was spreading down from his shoulder.
‘Oh Dila,’ he said. ‘Look what they’ve done to me.’
‘You’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘In time. You still have your hand and we can make the nerves regrow. Be strong, Rebraal.’
The Garonin were in full retreat but they had nowhere to go. With the TaiGethen after them, they chose cowardice rather than valour and began to blink out of existence. Dila’heth bent to her task. She whispered words Rebraal could not understand and placed her hand around his wrist.
A moment’s intense heat was washed away by a freezing cold that penetrated the wound and spread up his arm, numbing all sensation. Rebraal watched while the blackened, burned skin began to pale at his elbow and recede downwards towards the centre of the wound, turning to a healthy tone.
When he looked back up at her, Dila was done, and the slump in her shoulders and the sweat on her brow told of her efforts. Rebraal could still see the wound clearly enough. It was red raw and the ache was spreading in again. But he had some movement in his hand now.
‘It will need bandaging and cleaning. I can do no more. It will heal completely, given time.’
Rebraal rose to his feet and reached out for Dila to help her up. He pulled her into an embrace.
‘Tual will reward you every day for all that you have ever done in his service,’ he said. ‘Walk with me. I will support you.’
But there was to be nowhere to go. A flat harsh sound echoed from the mountains, pressing on the ears. The Garonin attack had been a mere prelude. From within the clouds vydospheres descended gracefully. Four of them in the valley. Rebraal stared back towards the beach and the open sea. He could count another five, hanging above the last remnants of the elven race and waiting to pounce.
Garonin soldiers appeared in their hundreds and thousands. High on the peaks and on both sides of the valley. Elves began to move back down to the centre of the path. TaiGethen and ClawBound set up a perimeter and waited for the attack, yet none appeared imminent.
‘They have us,’ said Rebraal. ‘They must have been tracking us all along.’
‘Why don’t they attack? Why are they waiting?’
‘I really have no idea,’ said Rebraal.
‘What can we do?’
‘At the moment, nothing. They have the numbers to slaughter us before we get close to them. Until the TaiGethen report a weakness, we can do nothing but sit and wait.’
‘For what?’
Rebraal looked at her and shrugged. ‘The end.’
‘Father, you have to make him listen to me,’ said Jonas. ‘Please, there isn’t much time.’
‘Jonas, we hear you,’ said Densyr. ‘But we have to get out of this tower.’
‘But you aren’t listening.’
‘Jonas!’ snapped Sol. ‘Wait. Let me deal with it.’
Dystran and Densyr were standing over Septern.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ said Ilkar.
Densyr nodded. ‘A true hero. He saved all of us.’
‘Forget the pathos,’ said Sol. ‘Now we have to find another who can perform the ritual. And we won’t do so standing up here in this teetering edifice.’
Densyr straightened. ‘You cannot seriously be thinking of going through with your suicide on behalf of the dead? There’s no need. We’ve won.’
‘It is a small victory in a war you will still lose,’ said Auum. ‘You should be listening to Jonas.’
Densyr tensed and bit down on a retort. Instead, he took a moment to calm himself.
‘I am listening. But do you not agree that whether the Garonin are gone or merely pausing for breath, we need to get down from this tower with anyone who can stand the trip.’
‘Not entirely,’ said Dystran, his voice a little distant. ‘Right now I am holding the grid from feeding back, just like before. One of us has to stay here until the other reaches the catacombs and can organise a team to dismantle the grid piece by piece.’
Sol spread his hands. ‘Fine. You two sort it out amongst yourselves. But the rest of us need to go. This structure is plainly unsafe. And we need to hear from my son about why it isn’t over.’
‘And where exactly do you think you’ll be going?’ asked Densyr.
He checked with Dystran that he was acting as buffer safely and rose to face Sol.
‘Where I should have gone long before you interfered. I should have listened to Hirad from the start.’
‘I shouldn’t have to remind you that you are the King of Balaia whether you like it or not and we have just scored a huge victory. What signal does you running west send out, do you think?’
‘How about that we are still in massive danger and the king is searching for an escape route should the worst happen.’
Densyr shook his head. ‘I cannot let you do that. I cannot have my people deserting this city on a fool’s quest for a promised land.’
Sol straightened. He was taller than Densyr by almost a head.
‘Your people? Since when did you own them? The days of college fiefdoms are over and have been for hundreds of years. The people will do what they want.’
‘I don’t think so, Sol.’
‘You know, standing here all alone, with your big ally stuck next to the Heart, you are not in a position to demand or expect anything at all.’
Densyr shrugged. ‘Go then. We fought well here and there are more fights to come. But if you would rather run, turn your back and flee like a coward, then do so. And take your elves and your dead with you. And the zoo animals. Xetesk needs none of you.’
Sol glanced briefly over his shoulder and stepped right up to Densyr. He could smell the other man’s sweat and the taint of ash and dust on his clothes. And the acid reek of mana from recently cast magic.
‘You are fortunate my family are in this room,’ said Sol quietly. ‘Questioning my courage is very, very dangerous. Jonas, what are you doing?’
His eye had been drawn by Jonas leading Diera and young Hirad to the door, what little was left of it.
‘Mother said you are posturing and it is pathetic. I just know it won’t make any difference who is braver and who stands and fights. They are coming back.’
‘Let them come,’ said Densyr. ‘We have beaten them once already and we will do so again.’
Auum and his Tai fell into place by Sol’s family. Sirendor and Thraun picked up Hirad and began a cautious descent with Ilkar walking in front of them. Auum directed Miirt and a rather shaky Ghaal to follow them down the rubble-strewn stairs. The Lord of the TaiGethen paused.
‘The proud do not listen to the wise,’ he said. ‘Their eyes are blind to the path and the only scent in their nostrils is glory. You have done well but you have beaten nobody. Yet here you stand in the ruins of your majesty and claim victory. The proud celebrate alone and fleetingly.’
Auum spun on his heel and was gone, Sol’s family following him at his nod of consent.
‘I’m sorry it had to end this way,’ said Sol.
‘We made a fine team,’ said Densyr.
‘I thought so. Perhaps I was wrong all along.’
‘Don’t think ill of me, Sol. I have done only what I thought was right.’
Sol sighed and the regret felt heavy enough to slump his shoulders. ‘Oh, Densyr, what else can I think?’
Pressure beat down. Crushing. Bowing the shoulders and weakening the knees. It funnelled into the ears and dragged at the eyes. It tightened the throat and sent the heart into arrhythmia. Densyr clutched at his chest and fell to his knees. Sol staggered, gripping on to a fallen timber and trying to look up through the ruined ceiling. He heard someone stumble and fall on the stairs not far below. Wolves whined.
A piercing sound cut through the fog of Sol’s consciousness, quickly falling to a low drone and then fading away altogether. The pressure eased. Sol helped Densyr back to his feet. The two men stared at one another for a moment, Sol seeing virgin doubt in Densyr’s eyes.
They looked up.
Five machines descended through the cloud to ring the college. The flat blare of their horns shivered broken glass to splinters. Densyr’s mouth hung open but his lower jaw moved a little as he tried to form the word ‘no’. Sol almost felt sorry for him. But not as sorry as he felt for all those people denied the chance to run west days ago. Before it was too late.
Densyr snapped quickly out of his shock and hurried to Dystran.
‘You can’t stay here,’ he said.
Dystran, lost in the mana spectrum and embraced by the Heart, smiled. ‘Nor can I leave. It is fitting. One lone soul. They will not seek me here. I will hold on for as long as I can but I will not let them take the Heart.’
‘I understand,’ said Densyr. He got back to his feet and turned to Sol. ‘How fast can you run?’
Every pace down the stairs sent shivers of pain through Sol’s back, hip and scorched scalp. He trailed Densyr by a few steps and was determined not to fall too far behind the Lord of the Mount. The air was full of screams and shouts for order and to arms. Already, the spells were flying and the white tears were crashing to the earth.
‘Where are we going?’ called Sol.
‘The catacombs. We have to catch up with the others, stop them going outside.’
Sol imagined his family trying to escape across the college courtyard and his blood chilled in his veins. He ran faster.
‘Diera!’ he bellowed. ‘Catacombs. Keep on going down to the catacombs.’
The tower shuddered under multiple impacts. Loose stone tumbled and bounced down the stairs after them. Round and round, down and down. Dust clogged the stairway below. Sol could smell the aftermath of fires and the sick stench of blood and innards.
They hurtled down the last few stairs, jumped a body that lay across the bottom step and out into the dome. It was carnage. Much of the roof had collapsed. Corpses were flattened and smeared beneath it. Stone was scorched and scattered, mixed with body parts.
The main doors had been splintered. Outside, defensive groups were fighting hard but the weight of enemy fire was enormous. Sol silently wished them all luck and searched the wreckage for his family. Instead, he and Densyr saw Brynar, standing by the entrance to the catacombs. He looked terribly pale and blood oozed from where he held his hands to his stomach.
‘They’ve gone down before you,’ he wheezed.
‘Come with us,’ said Densyr. ‘We can fix you.’
‘Why down there? The Heart is there. They are coming there to take it.’
‘But not yet; we have a spell to cast. Get healed and help me. We have to find Sharyr quickly.’
Densyr was pushing Brynar towards the entrance. Sol came to his other side.
‘Come on, lad. You can make it. Let me do the saving this time, eh?’
Brynar smiled and blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. ‘If you insist. Which spell, my Lord?’
Densyr risked a quick glance at Sol.
‘The Ritual of Opening.’
Sol almost tripped on the first flight of stairs. ‘When we get him to some help, you had better keep on running, Densyr. Because if I catch you I am going to flatten your stupid fucking head.’
‘Promises, promises. Don’t be naïve, Sol. This is a blood sacrifice. We used to specialise in this sort of thing. Borrowed it from the Wesmen a thousand years ago.’
‘But I thought only Septern—’
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