Gilderon walked with Takaar, who seemed in a daze. Whether he had any notion of what he had just done was questionable. They picked their way through the rubble and debris, which reached halfway up to the roof in places. Gilderon looked up at it, fearful of another fall.
‘Did you know that even the most solid of rock has tiny fractures? All I had to do was make them bigger.’ Takaar’s smile was ephemeral. ‘Simple, really.’
‘You can never do this again,’ whispered Gilderon. ‘It is not right. Yniss cannot countenance this.’
‘Where the rock is hard for a horse to pass I will make it dust. We must leave a path,’ said Takaar.
The Senserii knelt and rose as they searched. Nowhere did they find a living Wesman. Gilderon swallowed. They walked past a bloodied hand on the ground, fingers open. The arm disappeared beneath a fall of rock which must have crushed the body flat. Something was caught in the dead fingers.
Takaar knelt down and picked it up. In his hands lay a child’s doll in the likeness of a warrior. He held it up to Gilderon before his face crumpled, and he wailed for the lost, for what he had done and for who he had become.
Dawn on the day that would decide the fate of Balaia, Calaius and the Wesmen was chill and grey and entirely fitting. The feast of the night before had often been tense and the atmosphere occasionally aggressive, but Auum had enjoyed it nonetheless. He’d spent most of the evening with Sentaya and Tilman, putting together a series of commands they could all understand.
Stein had suffered almost constant abuse and sported a livid bruise on one cheek as testament to the only punch thrown. Sentaya had reacted furiously to it, halting the feast to reaffirm the nature of the alliance that would last until the battle was done. The offender had almost managed to pass Stein a cup of broth as a gesture of reconciliation but somehow it had fallen on his feet instead.
Stein might have taken renewed offence at the second affront but instead had chosen to tip back his head and laugh. Auum smiled at the memory. Stein was a fine diplomat, and there were probably a few Wesman warriors lined up behind the stockade this morning wondering quite why they hated all man’s magic so much.
Close to midnight the sound of many hundreds of voices singing had broken the mood in the village, and Stein, of course, had suggested a final event to boost the confidence of the Wesmen doomed to face their Wytch Lord-backed rivals at sunrise. A series of races and tasks of agility had been organised along with sparring and wrestling.
Grudgingly Auum had agreed to the notion, but the TaiGethen had won every challenge, their use of shetharyn drawing gasps and the laughter of the disbelieving in equal measure.
‘I ask you, do you wish to face any TaiGethen seeking your throat?’ Sentaya had roared, and following the cacophonous negative, he had jabbed a finger in the direction of the approaching enemy. ‘Neither do they!’
And so it came to this: Wesman Lord, TaiGethen warrior and eastern mage standing side by side. Auum stood between the other two, just in case. They had not exactly clasped hands on the alliance, but Auum had caught them speaking to each other as the feast broke up. Sentaya might have been smiling. Then again it might have been a panther’s grin; he had a very fierce face.
The three stood at the head of their forces outside the stockade which they hoped would provide brief but vital shelter when the time came. The ranks were lined up as bait for the enemy massing about three hundred yards distant. Ystormun’s men had already encountered the first of Stein’s wards, which had slowed their advance dramatically. Neither Ystormun nor his shamen were divining them, just as Stein had predicted.
‘They might as well run headlong for all the good it’ll do them,’ muttered Stein. ‘Going tiptoe across them makes you just as dead.’
‘I’ll be right behind you when you trot out and let them know,’ said Ulysan.
‘Are all your Communion minds open?’ asked Auum.
‘Yes.’ Stein indicated Sentaya’s outbuildings. ‘He wouldn’t let us in the house but the cattle don’t mind us. A quick shout and you can have your cells on their way in.’
Auum nodded and sent a prayer to Tual to bless his hidden teams with sure feet and swift strikes. The indefatigable Faleen was heading three cells positioned in the deep reeds bordering the lake about a mile north of the enemy. Merrat and Merke’s cells were waiting in a belt of woodland less than two miles to the east.
Auum watched Sentaya’s face as the tribal banners became clearer and the shamen’s garb stood out among the furs and leather of their warrior flock. Sentaya had about a hundred and fifty blades at his disposal, drawn from his village and from a cluster of small settlements around the southern end of the lake. His two elder sons commanded a third each as did he. All wore tribal marks on their faces, blue lines on their cheeks and white diagonals on their foreheads.
‘It’ll make us easy for your TaiGethen to spot when the lines are broken,’ Sentaya had said.
Sentaya was uncomfortable standing and waiting, and even more so at the notion of hiding inside his stockade when the spells started to fall. He knew it made sense, but it went against every instinct and felt like cowardice. Worse, he would be inside his stockade as the battle was joined because magic was being employed on his behalf. Auum understood his turmoil.
‘What do you know of them?’ asked Auum, nodding his head at the enemy.
Stein, as always, translated. Sentaya spat between his feet before he spoke.
‘I see banners from the Heconn, the Kistoi, the Rekine and the Calamet. Worthy fighters but they darkened the soul of all Wesmen when they bent the knee to grasp power they thought they could own. There is plenty of reason to hate them.’
Sentaya paused and scanned the undulating rock-strewn ground across which they were coming. A ward detonated to the left. Fire roared into the air, carrying two bodies with it. The screams were brief. Warriors paused but were ordered on, and the dead were left where they fell. Sentaya closed his eyes briefly and muttered what Auum understood to be a prayer of forgiveness.
‘Is what we are doing any different to the black fire the shamen will use to try and kill you?’ asked Auum.
Sentaya stared at him but did not reply. Instead he focused back on the enemy.
‘We must be wary of the shamen. These are not village holy men. So many of those claiming the robes are little more than vessels for Wytch Lord magic. They are not steeped in the spirits and have never studied or lived as they are required to. They are deep in the ways of the spirits and the Wytch Lords, though, shamen schooled inside Parve’s temples. Dangerous and powerful, able to channel far more effectively.’
Auum felt a moment of anxiety though he had to expect Ystormun would have brought the best that he could, the most loyal.
‘Have we had word of Takaar’s progress yet?’ he asked Stein.
‘Nothing. We know he’s trying to get here but no more.’ Stein turned a slightly nervous smile on Auum. ‘Don’t worry. We can send his spirit to cower in his temple and give Sentaya all he needs to ally the mass of Wesmen against the Wytch Lords. We’ll win this.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘You’re my brother, Auum, but if I didn’t believe it, I wouldn’t be standing here with a sworn enemy while facing one of Balaia’s most powerful creatures.’
‘You’re scared?’ asked Auum.
‘Terrified,’ said Stein. ‘This is a Wytch Lord in his own lands. He will draw directly on the power residing in his temple. The Ystormun you saw in Calaius was a child by comparison.’
In front of them the Wesman army stopped on a single command. They were in loose formation, wary of traps. They spread further to the left towards the lake and to the right, meaning to attack the village on three sides. Ystormun also knew they would clear the wards for his shamen in the process. Archers were among the axe and sword carriers. The shamen were clustered in groups of eight and positioned some thirty yards behind the warriors.