Al-Arynaar surged around him. A ClawBound panther from the rear defence leapt over elf and enemy. She flattened a Garonin soldier, her jaws closing on his neck as he struck the ground. Rebraal followed up, hacking through the thigh of the last man in front of him as he struggled to find his blade, unable to fire for fear of hitting his own.
Rebraal was clear. He tore down the path to the abandoned village. From ahead he could hear screaming and shouting and the detonation of weapons. Spells lit up the sky in desultory fashion, impacting both the ground and the vydospheres hovering over the bay.
He rounded the last bend, ran through the village and slithered to a stop, his heart thrashing in his chest.
‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘Dear Yniss, preserve your people.’
The sea was aflame. He watched a Garonin heavy weapon fire from the carriage of a vydosphere. The ship beneath it disintegrated in a ball of flame. Timbers and planking were reduced to ashes in moments. Those aboard were incinerated in the blink of an eye.
Rebraal could not see beyond the fire and smoke to the open sea and the remainder of the fleet. He could not see the Calaian Sun and could only pray that Jevin had escaped to deep water and away to preserve the bound statue of Yniss. But he could see the staging point on the beach. Or what was left of it.
Smoke trailed over blackened sand. Remnants of marker flags blew across the shore. Three thousand he had left there. All gone, their souls cast into the void. Rebraal fell to his knees. The only thing left now was to pray.
Chapter 45
Densyr took them at a dead run on a circuitous route back towards the catacomb entrance. All around them the sounds of fighting echoed through the corridors, replacing the earlier bombardment. It was hard to hear. His guards and mages defended the Heart while he ran for his life, hoping they could delay the Garonin long enough for Dystran to complete his final task.
Diera was struggling under the weight of young Hirad. The lad wouldn’t touch the floor to run or walk now. Densyr brought them to the junction of two corridors and stopped before making a right turn.
‘Do you want me to take him?’ he asked.
‘You need your hands free to cast,’ said Diera, blowing hard. ‘Hirad darling, please, will you run if Jonas runs with you?’
‘I can’t, Mama. I’m frightened. Why aren’t the wolves here?’
‘They must be ahead somewhere, checking the way is clear for us. It’s going to be all right. You’ll see.’
Hirad clung to her neck. Diera raised her eyebrows at Densyr.
‘I’ll be all right. Just you look after Jonas. I don’t like seeing him with that sword in his hands.’
Densyr glanced down at the blade they’d taken from one of Dystran’s guards. It rested easily in Jonas’s grip. He had hefted it like a veteran but Densyr knew he had only ever fenced with Sol. Real combat was horribly different. For his part, Densyr had part-cast an Ilkar’s Defence. It was the best he could think of without risking his charges.
‘Are you ready? We go right here, all the way down to the end of the corridor, then it’s left, up a short incline, straight across the hub and up the stairs to the way out. It gets hard from here. Do what I say and we’ll make it.’
‘Ready,’ said Jonas.
Diera nodded again and put her hands under Hirad’s backside to lift him onto her chest.
‘Put him on your back, Mother,’ said Jonas. ‘He’ll be better protected that way.’
‘Hirad?’ asked Diera.
The boy shrugged and climbed up on Diera’s back. She put her arms under his thighs.
‘Thank you, Jonas.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Densyr. ‘Jonas up front with me. We’ll shield your mother.’
Jonas kept pace with him. They hurried down the corridor, a long, narrow space that inclined very slightly along its length. As they approached the end, Densyr heard a sound from ahead and brought them to a sliding stop. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate.
‘Be ready,’ he said.
Jonas clutched his sword in both hands. The point tapped on the ground. Densyr could not suppress a smile.
‘Sol used to wait until we could see them at least,’ he said.
‘It helps the nerves,’ said Jonas.
‘For us too.’
Round the corner came a figure, carrying another in his arms. Densyr sagged with relief and ran towards them.
‘Suarav. Dear Gods above, man, how are you still alive?’
Suarav’s face crumpled. Tears streaked down the dirt encasing his face. His shoulders shook. The head of the man in his arms fell outwards. Brynar. Behind him, Diera gasped.
‘Hide your head, Hirad. Do it now.’
The whole of Brynar’s left leg beneath the knee was gone. Ripped away by some huge force. Blood still dripped from the stump.
‘Help him,’ managed Suarav. ‘He fought so well.’
‘Put him down,’ said Densyr. ‘There’s nothing anyone can do for him now.’
Suarav shook his head. ‘Don’t say that. So many of them out there. We held them. He deserves to live. He-’
Suarav’s body juddered and blew sideways, slamming into the opposite wall of the corridor. White tears thudded into his body, ripping him and the dead Brynar into smoking pieces. Diera screamed. Densyr swore. More footsteps. Powerful and rhythmic. Two men at least, possibly three.
‘I’m ready to cast. Jonas… Jonas, no!’
‘Jonas!’ shrieked Diera.
The boy had heard neither of them. He had run to the end of the corridor and was waiting just away from the turning, sword cocked back. Densyr could see his body heaving and the tremble in his legs. Densyr began moving towards him, his spell itching to be cast. It shouldn’t feel like that.
A Garonin soldier appeared at the corridor entrance, stooping to squeeze his frame into the confined space. Jonas hesitated, looking up at the eight-foot-tall figure hunched under the low ceiling. But not for long. With a cry, he swung his sword round and up. The blade sheared through armour at the waist. The Garonin howled in agony and fell back.
Densyr made the end of the corridor and cast his Defence spell down it. Two more Garonin stood there. White tears played over the blue-washed barrier. Densyr could feel every impact through his arms. He clung on to the casting, finding it hard to concentrate.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked himself.
By him, Jonas was staring at the blood on his sword. He was shivering.
‘I killed someone,’ he said, his voice tiny.
‘And though I shouldn’t say it, your father would have been proud of you. Just check your moves with me first next time, eh?’
The answer to Densyr’s first question became obvious. The walls all around them and throughout the catacombs glowed deep blue and trembled. Densyr pushed hard at his casting, forcing the Garonin back along the corridor.
‘Time to leave. And quickly.’
There was beauty in the way it all folded back, thought Dystran. A certain symmetry of which Septern himself would have been proud. The lines of the ward grid had gathered together when he had let go the entry point between Heart and casting. The place where he should have set his mind to keep the opposing forces at bay was now empty. There was more he could do, however, and do it he did.
Dystran imagined himself humming as he did his work. His mother used to hum when she was cooking so it seemed the right thing to be doing. Dystran did not want to let the small chance that the energies within the grid would dissipate come to fruition. So he directed the mana flow back along the grid lines, using his failing mind to force them into the shape of a rope with individual fibres spiralling together.