‘Remain scared, it is a wise state of mind.’
Mages were flying back to the fleet. Dark specks against the cloud-strewn sky, flying against the wind. Auum felt his heart rate increase. News was at hand. He watched the trio approach. Jevin ordered a red burgee raised atop the main mast to guide them in. Rebraal had chosen well. All appeared unhurried and in control of their castings after several hours away although they had probably been unable to land.
But as they drew near he could make out the distress on their faces ever more clearly. He prayed to Yniss that it was simply exhaustion but he knew otherwise. The trio circled the Calaian Sun and landed on the wheel deck.
Everyone on board was looking at them. Every elf on deck had risen and there was a concerted bunching towards the stern. Auum didn’t blame them. The first mate asked for calm and assured them that information would be given to all. It did little to quell the thirst for knowledge.
‘I hardly need to ask, do I?’
Dila’heth shook her head and wiped dust from her face.
‘They are there, my Lord Auum. Yniss preserve me, you can see the clouds from here if you look for long enough. It is no mirage.’
‘Is Gyernath secure?’ asked Jevin. ‘Can we still land there?’
‘Yes, but it will do us little good other than to disembark the ClawBound we need to scout north. The Garonin will have pressed into Xetesk before you can make it on foot, Lord Auum. You will need to find another route to Xetesk.’
‘And the colleges?’ Auum was sure more bad news was on the way.
‘Lystern is gone. Xetesk and Julatsa will be under direct attack in a little over ten days. Other vydospheres are headed to Korina and to Triverne Inlet, meaning even the site of the One college will not be spared. Balaia is dying. Consumed by the fires of the Garonin and soon to be dust and ash.’
Auum put his head in his hands. He heard a collective groan from the assembled crowd behind him on deck.
‘Are we already too late?’ he asked.
Dila’heth shrugged. ‘It is hard to be sure of anything. I do not want to give you false hope.’
‘Did you land? Is there any good news?’
Dila laughed and exchanged glances with her two fellow mages.
‘The Balaians are fighting, we saw evidence of that. But they are compromised just like us. Some of their dead are returned. Their messages carry no hope of victory and speak only of running, but they do not know where. They have no idea who to turn to.’
Auum nodded. ‘Then they shall turn to us.’
The survivors of the massacre barely stopped running until they reached the questionable sanctuary of Xetesk. The enemy had stopped moving once the defenders had fled. Scouts reported them actually turning away from their path, heading further north with their machine.
Inside Xetesk, confusion obscured all else. Refugees, living and previously dead, were flooding into the city from Erskan, Blackthorne, Pontois and Denebre. All told the same story. Unstoppable advance, total devastation. No quarter given, no hostages taken. Nothing left but ashes and dust, the stumps of trees and naked rock.
The authorities, shorn of Denser and Sol, had struggled to cope. As many as possible had been directed to parks and waste grounds and given what food and shelter could be found. Others received charity in private dwellings and yet more had been fleeced by unscrupulous landlords and inn owners. The city was creaking.
The arrival of the Lord of the Mount, dishevelled and riding with just a handful of those with whom he had set out, only deepened the disquiet. Tensions had been rising steadily between the living and the dead. Violence was breaking out. Divisions were deepening and the advance of the enemy added fear to the mix. Denser’s ears rang with problems, none of which he was immediately willing to face.
In the relative peace and quiet of the Mount, Denser poured a jug of water over his head and let the icy liquid soak down over his shirt and trousers. He handed the jug back to his apprentice, who refilled it from the butt in the corner of the bedchamber. He upended this second jug too, hearing the water splash over the stone floor and force life into his bones and muscles.
‘Thank you, Brynar. You can go. Find me some food; I’ll be down to the main chambers shortly.’
‘Yes, my Lord Denser,’ said Brynar, a keen young mage, bright and determined. ‘Baron Blackthorne, Sharyr and Lord Dystran all request urgent audience. As does Mayor Haved.’
‘And I will see them as soon as I can, assure them of that. First I must rid myself of this dust and stench.’
‘My Lord Denser?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is good to see you back safe.’
Denser nodded and suddenly he was clinging hard to his emotions. ‘I can scarce believe it myself. Off you go.’
The door closed behind Brynar and Denser sank down onto his haunches and let the sobs roll over him, his tears mingling with the water that dripped from his face and hair. His body shook. He clamped his hands to his thighs, rocking back and forth.
The pounding flame and the incessant white teardrops. Her hair alight, surrounding her face while she screamed. The fire engulfing her hands at which she stared until the heat blinded her and suffocated her. Fingers clawing at the ground while she died. The tearing agony as her soul was lost to the void.
Worse than before. Ark had saved her soul from the demons the first time. Nothing could save her now, and even in his death Denser would not be near her. Not ever again. Denser let images of her face, her first face, settle in front of his eyes. He reached out but they distorted like reflections on windblown water.
Denser sat while the water chilled his body, making him shiver and interrupting his despair. He raised his head and wiped his face with his hands. He drew in a huge pained breath and coughed violently. So brief, returned life.
‘Get up, Denser,’ he said to himself. ‘Wallow later. Do something. Do something.’
He pushed himself to his feet. And, while he dried himself and found a change of clothes, he thought. He cleared his mind of his visions as far as he could and thought back over all that had happened out there on the battlefield and all that the dead had said in the days before.
And when he was done, he found that there was only one question that really mattered. Had his mind been playing tricks and, if not, what in all the hells had happened to Sol?
Denser studied himself in the mirror. A little greyer than the last time he had looked. And plainly exhausted too, but rest would have to wait. He placed a fresh skullcap on his head and made his way down the spiral stair of his upper tower to where Brynar would have left his food for him.
He opened the door to find he would not be eating alone.
‘Bloody hell, what’s brought you up out of your hole? And who let you in without asking me?’
‘My Lord Denser, it is customary to extend the hand of friendship to those with your best interests at heart,’ said Dystran.
The old Lord of the Mount chose not to stand, and instead remained seated on one of the leather-upholstered chairs in Denser’s dining chamber.
‘I see you’ve already helped yourself to most of my lunch. Don’t they feed you down in the catacombs? Too many rats and grubs, is it?’
Denser stalked into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He rang the communication bell, poured himself a large goblet of wine and sat opposite Dystran, whose eyes were sparkling from his prematurely aged face. Mischief and conspiracy, no doubt. Dystran waved a hand impatiently.
‘Oh, Denser, do shut up. There is more and better food in this tower’s kitchens than in entire quarters of our once-great city.’
Denser looked past Dystran to the grand fireplace, above which a portrait of the man in his younger days looked down. It was one of a set depicting the last eight Lords of the Mount in what could loosely be termed relaxed attitudes. Dystran was smiling.