Demonstorm

'Spoken like Ilkar,' said Hirad. T know you're right. It's just hard to admit.'

'None here would do The Raven disservice and yon are still its core. While you burn, we can win. Don't let pride extinguish you.'

Hirad breathed deep. He didn't have to look back at his friends to know what they were thinking.

'Right,' he said. 'We'll do it your way. Now I'm going to rest. I don't feel quite right.'

Hirad walked as quickly as he was able to his cabin, his mind aflame. It made him nauseous and unsteady. For a moment he wondered if he was seasick but the ship was making serene progress and it was not an affliction to which he was prone. Entering his cabin, he splashed water on his face and towelled it dry before lying on his bunk and closing his eyes.

He felt detached from his body though he could still feel it; as if touching it from a distance. His mouth was dry and his forehead lined with sweat. He swallowed hard, his heart racing in his chest. He'd have cried out but he wasn't sure anyone would hear him.

The cabin was dim but behind his eyelids stark lights danced. Hirad felt himself slipping away from the creaking of ship's timbers, the call of orders across the deck and the screech of gulls far from shore. He didn't fight it, he had no defence. The last coherent thought he had was one of relief that he hadn't collapsed on deck. He didn't want anyone to worry.

There was a battering sound. It accompanied the lights that were so bright that Hirad couldn't see beyond them though he was aware something was out there. The battering was frenzied and constant,

the work of countless rams and cudgels desperate to break in. He didn't pause to consider where. The tumult was accompanied by screaming. Faint at first but gaining in volume, getting closer.

He had heard the like before. It was the sound of a routed population driving headlong away from danger. It was disordered, panicked and terrified. He fancied he could see shadows behind the lights but it might just as easily have been a trick of his mind.

Pressure built behind his eyes. It grew quickly, in harmony with the screaming which dragged painfully in his head and the battering which dulled to a background clamour by comparison. Like the incoming tide it was inexorable and like rising flood waters it threatened to engulf him, drag him under.

Pain grew, blossomed across his consciousness. He thought he might have screamed but he couldn't hear the sound over those of the masses behind the light. But with the pain was the warmth of recognition. A touching of minds like the meeting of old friends.

Could it be Sha-Kaan? Hirad opened his mouth to bid him welcome but then the spirit passed through him on the crest of a scream and he was shovelled to wakefulness. He blinked at the half-light of the cabin, unsure whether to laugh or cry. He carried with him the tender feelings of the encounter; all the energy, life and love of his oldest friend. Yet beneath it, the fear of oblivion. Real, almost tangible, shouting from each of his muscles and the dulling thud in his head like a warning siren.

He sat up quickly, felt darkness threaten to close on him and a hand on his shoulder.

'Hey, not so fast,' said Eriehne. 'Take your time.'

Hirad focused on her slowly. 'How long have you been here?'

'Ever since you shouted Ilkar's name the first time.'

'I knew it!'

Hirad swung his feet out of the bunk and stood up, letting Erienne guide him.

'Where are you going?'

'On deck. Rebraal must have felt this.'

'Felt what?'

Hirad moved past her and yanked open the door. Tlkar. He moved straight through me. He was running. He was frightened.'

'That's not . . .'

Hirad didn't stop to ease Erienne's confusion. He trotted along the short corridor to the aft steps and up out into the fresh smells and bright light of the deck. The sun washed over the timbers, the sails flapped idly in the light breeze and the scent of the sea filled his nostrils.

Rebraal was in a seated position, leaning against a crate and surrounded by The Raven and TaiGethen. The Unknown passed a cup to him and he drank. His face was pale in the light and his eyes darted here and there, settling on Hirad.

'You felt it too,' said Hirad.

Rebraal nodded. 'Through every fibre.'

'What does it mean?'

'It means he is chased. It means the demons are breaking down the doors. It means they think they have found a way in.' Rebraal paused and sighed. 'It means we need the wind. I think the dead are running out of time.'

 

 

Chapter 16

 

Dystran made sure the survivors had space, warm food and blankets. He had taken them into his tower and sat the three of them in his chambers. They were chilly like the day outside but the chairs were deeply upholstered and comfortable. Dystran had often sunk into one of them himself to try and imagine what life had been like before the demons came.

Already he had people looking at the texts they had brought back with them but he was more concerned with the condition of the raiders right now. They had lost one swordsman in the library, which still burned though it was clear the demons were trying to extinguish the blaze. Slaves had formed a bucket chain that snaked and split to six wells in and around the college.

One of his archivists had also perished, right at the moment he must have thought he was safe. It was ironic that the raiders' escape route back into the dome should be that first trodden by The Raven when they broke in. A time of life that seemed so distant now.

Suarav had survived by sheer force of will, holding off demons to give his mages enough time to get through the window and away into the ColdRoom lattice. But he was suffering for it now. He sat hunched in a blanket, staring down at his quivering hands. His fingers were blue and the twitching of his muscles meant he could barely hold his mug. Dystran pressed his hands around it and helped it to his lips.

Suarav's hands were so cold. Unnaturally so. His face bore the scars of a dozen demon's claws, his lips were cracked and pallid. The soldier had trouble taking the drink. Much of it dripped down his chin.

'Take your time,' said Dystran. 'You can relax now, you're safe.'

'They couldn't take my soul,' said Suarav. 'They couldn't take it.'

'No indeed.' Dystran had been genuinely surprised by the fact.

'And do you know why?' Suarav's face cracked into a pained smile. The cuts on his face crinkled, spilling fresh blood. 'Because not all of them can do it.'

'What?' Dystran started and had to remind himself not to take his hands away from Suarav's.

'Some of the lesser castes clearly don't have the ability or I would not be here.'

Suarav took another sip of his drink and coughed. A shudder ran the length of his body and he sighed, collapsing in a little on himself.

'All right, enough now,' said Dystran. 'Build your strength. Rest easy. We will guard you here.'

'It's cold,' said Suarav.

'Yes it is,' said Dystran, though not cold enough to account for the captain's condition. 'I'll get you another blanket. Maybe some gloves.' He snapped his fingers at one of the guards. 'See to it.'

He pressed Suarav's hands to his mug once more and turned to Sharyr who sat on a small sofa with the other archivist, Brynel. Both men were lapsing into shock. Bodies trembling, eyes staring. Brynel swallowed repeatedly. He was going to need attention quickly. Sharyr was only marginally better. At least he raised a smile and was able to drink.

'You've done a marvellous thing,' said Dystran.

'If the texts we took reveal anything.' He tried to laugh but it came out a splutter.

'Even if they don't, it shows we are still fighting. That we still believe we can beat these bastards.'

'Without him we'd all be gone.' Sharyr nodded at Suarav. A glance told Dystran he'd closed his eyes, his breathing was laboured but at least it was even. 'He was immense. He saved us all so many times.' Abruptly, tears streamed down Sharyr's face and a heaving sob shook his body. 'Sorry, sorry.' Tea slopped over his hands and he dropped the mug which shattered in the empty fireplace, making him flinch violently.