‘No!’ screamed Heryst.
‘Time to go, my Lord,’ said Kayvel, returned from the dead and still standing by him though his new body was hardly more healthy than the one in which he had died.
‘We must fight.’
‘We cannot, Heryst. It is as I told you. They are too strong. Cut the head from one beast and ten more appear.’
All the energy, all the strength and belief flowed from Heryst and he sagged, letting the sound of the machine and the dying cries of his own people wash over him. From the upper courtyard mages still cast. One section of the courtyard wall exploded inwards. More died. It was a procession.
‘Then what can we do?’
‘The only thing that is left. Get to the Communion Globe and warn the others. Tell them to run.’
Heryst nodded, direction giving him something to cling on to for just a while longer. He ran from the courtyard shouting to his people to run, to save themselves in any way they could. The rumble of falling masonry was loud in his ears. The stonework shook beneath his feet. The tower of Lystern was coming down.
Heryst took the long spiral staircase two steps at a time. Everyone he met he ordered away from the college. Down beneath the still-beating Heart he went to the chamber of the Communion Globe. Outside the door two frightened-looking guards remained at their posts.
‘There is no hope,’ said Heryst. ‘Go. Save yourselves if you can. Do not fight. Run north.’
‘My Lord, we are sworn—’
‘I release you from all such bonds. Go. Please.’
He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Peace descended. All he could feel was the rumble of the approaching machine and all he could hear the distant crump of collapsing stone. Not long now.
‘Xetesk. I must speak to Xetesk.’ Heryst half-threw the nearest mage from his chair. ‘Enact the ward. Lock that door.’
He sat down and placed his hand on the silk.
Sharyr had retired from the research and casting of dimensional magics after the demon wars. The fact was, he couldn’t stand casting at all after it was over. His hands weren’t steady, his mind wasn’t sharp and he had simply had enough. But when Denser asked him to be master of the Xeteskian Communion Globe, he had felt it was a job he could safely accept. Not difficult and yet commanding great respect among the colleges and even the elves.
Since the failure of the Globe on Calaius, Sharyr had spent much time in the chamber, set away from prying eyes, deep in the catacombs. Rumour had it that not even Dystran knew where it was but Sharyr didn’t believe that for a moment.
They had not raised a whimper from the elves.
Sharyr was not an old man, though like every veteran of those terrible days he surely felt like one. He’d managed to keep his hair, an achievement of which he was proud. But still the nightmares plagued his sleep and tripped up his bladder. One day he was certain it would all fade away. One day.
He sat in one of the six low chairs with his hand on the silk, on call just in case he should be needed to help channel messages through to Denser out in the field. Just like his last conversation with Heryst over in Lystern. The enemy would be at their gates now. But their Globe was still active and stable. In Xetesk they could feel it.
‘What if the Calaian Globe isn’t actually down but the focus of the spell has shifted for some reason,’ he said as the thought occurred. ‘We assume a certain shape to their construct, and it is that we cannot find. What if we should be looking for a slightly altered shape. We should think what the construct might look like if it was, you know, just ever so slightly tuned out or something.’
‘Master Sharyr. It’s Lystern,’ said a voice from across the Globe.
‘I’m here,’ said Sharyr.
He settled more deeply into the chair, flattened his palm against the silk and fed his own Communion structure into the Globe where it joined with the other five to amplify and solidify the contact with Lystern.
‘I am Master Sharyr and this is Xetesk.’
What came back when the contact was open sounded like screams and rock falls. Nothing should penetrate the sanctity of the Globe chambers.
‘Lystern, speak.’
‘They are at the doors. They’re at the damned doors,’ shrieked a voice consumed by terror.
‘Heryst? My Lord Heryst, is that you?’ Sharyr’s heart was pounding. He could feel the anxiety of his team adding to a rippling in the construct. ‘Steady. Steady.’
‘Sharyr, listen to me.’ A second voice. Calmer. This was Heryst. ‘The enemy have breached the college. The tower is coming down around us. They—’
A massive crash sounded. Sharyr pressed his hand to the silk to stop himself jerking it away to hold over his ear. He winced as the report fed through the Globe. At least one of his team lost the casting.
‘Get yourself back in,’ he hissed. ‘Steady it. Come on. Breathe.’
‘Dear Gods above. The Heart. Stop them.’
More sounds of destruction. Sharyr heard a scream, cut off abruptly. The Communion flickered and steadied.
‘Heryst. Can you hear me?’
Sobbing from Lystern. Screams and explosions. It had to be happening right outside the chamber. Or within.
‘It’s gone,’ managed Heryst, his voice tight and whispering. ‘They’ve ripped it right out of its cradle. Dear Gods burning, we are finished.’
‘What, Heryst, what?’ But he knew.
‘The Heart, Sharyr. Taken and consumed. Listen to me. Run. Do not fight them. You cannot possibly win. Tell Denser. Call off his attack. Save lives, it’s the only—’
A cracking of timbers.
‘They’re here. They’re inside,’ hissed Heryst.
‘Who?’ urged Sharyr. ‘Who is inside? What are they?’
A strangled cry and the Globe flickered.
‘Where are they?’ demanded an alien voice that bounced in Sharyr’s skull. It was strangely melodic but this did not disguise either the power or the menace.
‘Who?’ Heryst’s voice was cracked and desperate.
‘Those who light the way. Those who will seek the path to us.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Heryst. ‘Please, you have what you want. Spare my people.’
Sharyr heard the sound of something cracking. Bone and cartilage. The alien voice said something else but he couldn’t pick it up. The voice of another of the Lysternan Globe team began to speak. Something fell, something heavy.
The Communion Globe was silent, reducing to a dull grey.
‘Heryst? Heryst, can you hear me? Any of you?’
Sharyr kept his hand on the silk still, praying for the contact to be re-established. Futile. All he could hear was the hard breathing of his team.
‘They’ve gone,’ said one. ‘They’ve gone.’
‘Did anyone catch what the other voice said?’ asked Sharyr, his cracked voice echoing painfully in the Communion chamber.
‘I believe so, but it hardly matters,’ said the mage to his right. ‘Garonin, or something.’
‘Everything matters right now. Go and look up that word. Any clue as to who they are could help. I’ve got a feeling I heard it before when we were researching dimensional alignment. Those texts weren’t in the library; they’re still down here in my old work-shops. ’
‘As you wish, Master Sharyr.’