Outside, the energy of the Heart warmed his body. It rested thirty feet above his head. A tall, cylindrical stone, similar to those in all the colleges in a chamber designed to circulate mana at high density. Without it, mages aligned to the college anywhere in the world would be unable to cast spells with any degree of certainty or success.
Heryst nodded to the guards and began to climb the long, gentle, circular stairway up to ground level. There were mirrors set along the outside wall every thirty feet or so, all of them ancient and tarnished, hung as a security measure by a high elder mage of generations past. He caught his reflection in one of them and rather wished he hadn’t.
He admitted to being sixty but looked more like ninety. His once-proud head of hair was gone and he wore a skullcap to keep the chill away. His face was wrinkled and puffy, his nose and cheeks perennially red and veined. Heryst knew why but the shakes in the morning were only ever quelled by strong spirits.
The demons had taken so much. Maybe not his soul but the man he had been was lost forever. Sleep was a fleeting pleasure ruined by nightmares and food was taken merely to live. The joy of taste was a bitter memory.
Heryst sighed. His eyes were not still. The pupils performed a tiny, jerking dance and took the edge off his focus. He reached out a hand to the mirror and touched it with the tips of his skeletal fingers.
‘I’ve been fooling you, haven’t I? This isn’t life; it is just a long decline to the grave,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps defeat would be best for us all.’
Chapter 12
‘I don’t see this lot as being too much of a problem,’ said Denser.
‘No indeed,’ said Sol. ‘Hard to remember a time when I could count an enemy invasion force on the fingers of one hand. A well-placed Jalyr’s Sun should do the trick.’
‘You do realise it can’t be that easy, don’t you?’ said Denser.
‘Of course,’ said Sol.
‘Where do you think we should try and take them?’
Sol looked out over the gently rolling countryside that was so typical of inland Balaia. They were three days easy ride south-east of Xetesk on the southern borders of the Pontois Plains. The land north was beautiful and green, scattered with the purple flowers of heather. To the south the landscape was dominated by the great Grethern Forest, where Thraun used to run as a wolf. But to the east the ground was parched and dying, as if anticipating the disaster about to overcome it and reduce it still further. Its rolls and shallow dips hid the enemy for short periods, though their position could always be marked by the belching cloud, metallic thudding and occasional flash of mana fire that preceded a wash of heat.
The horizon was full of dust and the air tainted with an acrid burning scent that stuck in the throat. The enemy was transforming Balaia into a wasteland and their ambling pace told of a power mighty enough to have no need of urgency. It was clear even from this distance that they did not consider the soldiers and mages of Balaia any sort of threat.
The shock of seeing the enemy and their extraordinary machine had passed quickly enough. The moment’s fear of the unknown had been washed away by relief that only three men walked in front of the machine which, it had been confirmed quickly, was drawing in mana, or rather whatever it was mana became after it had been ignited. It had made sense of the spreading dropouts in the mana spectrum. The huge, bulbous, metallic balloon being dragged on sled runners sent gouts of steam and smoke from multiple chimneys, while from within the thundering of metal parts hammering together occasionally drowned out all speech.
There was to have been a discussion about talking to the enemy. Seeing the spreading destruction left in their wake had strangled that thought at birth.
‘I think as soon as we are ready we should attack. No sense in delay.’
They were standing with thirty mages and two hundred college guard, having ridden to their forward camp late the previous evening. The returned Raven, unable to ride horses because no horse would take a dead man on its back, had joined them this morning.
‘I thought all you dead folk liked to stick together,’ said Denser ‘I’m surprised no more of you came. Solidarity and all that.’
‘They can’t, as I am tired of explaining,’ said Hirad. ‘Not unless their loved ones are standing here too. And add to that, they’re bloody scared of this enemy. Just like me.’
‘But I thought the whole was greater than the sum, if you get me,’ said Denser.
‘And that is why they congregate close together in Xetesk for the most part. But they, like we, have other compulsions,’ said Ilkar.
‘You’ve felt it, Unknown,’ said Hirad. ‘Don’t pretend you haven’t. Or you, Xetesk-man. The weight of souls around you. They need something to hang on to. Alone they just get blown away one by one. But together there is strength.’
Ilkar nodded. ‘In our own dimension we congregated because the more that are in one place, the greater the bliss and comfort. Now we congregate if we are not to fade. Not all of them have purpose beyond survival, and for them the dual support of being by their loved ones and in a mass is safe. But for us it’s different. For us to survive, we need a purpose and we need someone living to show us the way. We’re beginning to think that, for better or worse, that’s you, Unknown, and you, Denser.’
‘I’m not with you,’ said Sol.
‘You two are what binds us all, that’s what we think,’ said Erienne, her young frame dwarfed by that of Sol. ‘We can’t prove it, but what we do know is that now we’re back, the further we are from you, the more it hurts.’
‘So you’re saying you want to help us in this fight? I thought you said we couldn’t beat them,’ said Sol.
Hirad hefted the sword in his hand. ‘Yeah, but you have to try, don’t you?’
‘You’re talking about revenge,’ said Sol.
‘Bloody right. Now we’re here, it seems rude not to. I still don’t want you to fight, but if you are that determined, we will stand with you.’
Sol smiled, a little familiar warmth from standing with The Raven seeping into his bones.
‘Well, fair enough, but this isn’t a Raven fight, it’s Xetesk’s. We’re casting. There won’t be anything left for you to confront.’
Hirad’s eyes widened. ‘That’ll give you a bit of an itchy sword hand, won’t it?’
Sol laughed. ‘I’m over fifty. I use the cudgel on unruly drunks but I don’t pick up my sword any more.’
‘But—’
‘Hirad, this isn’t going to be like the old days. Gods drowning, if I walk too far the arthritis in my hip puts me in a chair for two days. That body you’re wearing gives you twenty years on me. At least.’
‘So what’s that on your back, then?’
Sol’s two-handed blade was sitting in its snap-clip fastenings, hilt over his right shoulder like always. He shrugged.
‘You know how cautious I am, Hirad.’
Hirad nodded. ‘Whatever you want to believe. But when the fight begins, I still want you on my left-hand side, arthritic hip or not.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘Good. So when are you casting?’
‘About as soon as you stop jabbering, Coldheart,’ said Denser. ‘Just watch what a Jalyr’s Sun can do.’
Ilkar and Erienne blinked in unison.
‘A what?’ asked Erienne.
‘That’ll be the new name for a FireGlobe,’ said Denser. ‘First successfully tested by Jalyr in the Xetesk long rooms seventy-odd years ago, as you no doubt recall from your history.’
The little girl’s face pouted beautifully, and Sol had to suppress a laugh.
‘Why have you renamed it?’ she asked.
‘We renamed pretty much every offensive spell,’ said Denser. ‘And a few others.’
‘Why?’ asked Ilkar. ‘What was wrong with the old names? Never left me in any doubt what the effect was meant to be.’
Denser spread his hands. ‘Well, it was felt, when we eventually got round a table - the three colleges, the elves, barons and Wesmen - that certain spell names were overly aggressive and gave a negative impression of mages. And they had no style either, some of them. No imagination.’
Ilkar’s eyes sparkled. ‘You’re joking, right? You sat round a table and discussed spell names with the Wesmen. Was Tessaya there?’
‘He’s not joking,’ said Sol. ‘And yes, he was there. Still going strong too, our lord of the united tribes. Made some good suggestions on the names too.’
‘Didn’t you have more important things to discuss?’ asked Erienne. ‘Like how to get the birth rate up and repopulate the place. How you were going to rebuild the country. Tiny trifles like that? Seems to me you’re trying to reinvent mages into some outdated romantic ideal. Bit stupid, really.’
‘Say what you think, my love,’ said Denser. ‘I hate it when you vacillate.’
Erienne smiled, the gaps in her teeth augmenting her air of innocence. ‘So go on, then, what did you call HellFire?’
‘Could I point out that we have an enemy advancing on us? Slowly, I admit, but advancing.’ Darrick hadn’t taken his eyes from them. ‘You’re going to miss the best place to cast this spell if you don’t get on with it. If they get another half a mile closer, you’ll have lost the slope for any infantry advance and your watchers back there on the hill will be feeling a little close to the action. I presume they are to run if it all goes wrong?’
‘Bloody soldiers,’ grumbled Ilkar. ‘Always have to be so practical.’
‘We’re in danger of losing focus,’ said Darrick. ‘And that would surely be catastrophic.’
Sol nodded. ‘He’s right of course. Thank you, General. Let’s get the mage team preparing. They need space and a little peace. Any of The Raven who want to stand with me, I’d be honoured.’
‘I wouldn’t stand anywhere else,’ said Hirad.
He moved to Sol’s right-hand side and Sol felt a tingle through his entire body, even though the sight of their borrowed bodies made him sad. He had to stop himself reaching for his sword. Sirendor came to stand on Hirad’s right, the place Thraun had filled after Sirendor’s death. Ras came to Sol’s left, standing next to Aeb, once a huge warrior from the disbanded Protector calling, now in the body of a street fighter, short, squat and powerful.
In the old days Ras would have taken position with Richmond but his nine-year-old’s body could not handle a sword and he was standing frustrated behind the mage line. Darrick completed the line to Sol’s left. Erienne and Ilkar were with Denser while the Lord of the Mount issued his instructions to the casting team.
‘Gods falling, we’d better get this spell right,’ muttered Sol.
The air became taut. Mana poured into the spell construct as it expanded. Sol couldn’t see mana, only a mage could tune into that spectrum of light, but he knew well enough what he would see if he could. Long hours with Denser drawing him diagrams had seen to that.
A circle, widening every moment and with lines criss-crossing it like hundreds of spokes on a cartwheel, to keep it under control. The shape would be a deep, pulsing blue, the colour of Xeteskian magic. Once the circle had reached the required size, more power would be fed into it. The lattice of lines would bow out above and below, like the inflation of a pig’s bladder for a child’s game. The lines would glow brightly. They would strain and then they would hold.
The spell was almost ready to cast. Denser, his eyes closed, his body linked to the construct but not a part of it, spoke final words of encouragement to his mages. Their faces were red and sweating. They were all blowing hard, concentrating everything they had on keeping the shape steady.
Denser opened his eyes and smiled. He looked out over the enemy, still half a mile distant. The concentration of mana had caught their attention. Heads that had been looking down now gazed directly at the group of mages, whose spell, invisible to the naked eye, would be bobbing just in front of them, awaiting release on Denser’s command.
As if in response, a resonance built up in the air. A cloud quickly formed above the machine. It was shot through with lightning spears of colour. Yellow, green, orange and blue clashing and exploding. Another wave of heat pulsed out. Fire raged briefly in the wake of the machine and more of the Balaian landscape was turned to dust and ash.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Sol.
‘Me too,’ said Denser. He turned to Erienne and smiled. ‘Cleansing Flame.’
‘What?’
‘HellFire, my love,’ he said. ‘It’s now called Cleansing Flame.’
And accompanying her delightful child’s laughter, Denser inclined his head and the Jalyr’s Sun was released.
Barely fifteen feet from the ground, the deep blue sphere, flashing with white and blue light deep in its core, sailed out from the casting team. It was vast. Forty yards in diameter at best guess.
‘You really mean business, don’t you?’ breathed Hirad.
‘People really shouldn’t take bits of my country away without asking, should they?’ said Denser.
The sphere crackled with barely suppressed power. It increased in speed as it approached the enemy, and veered sharply up right in front of them. Their eyes followed it. The beasts pulling the machine ignored it completely. A curt nod from Denser and the sun set on the invaders.