‘What are we running for, you and me? Are you really going to build another Blackthorne Castle? Do you have the energy? All those you protected have been swept away by these bastards. Just like my people. I’m going down with this ship and I’m looking forward to it.’
Blackthorne looked away towards the Garonin heading directly towards them and then to those making their steady way towards the college.
‘Go!’ he shouted to the servants still waiting at the end of the garden. ‘We’ll be along presently.’
Not one of their men moved. Instead, a show of hands resulted in them returning to the barons and forming a ring around them at a deferential distance. Blackthorne nodded his respect and thanks, pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘You know, you are absolutely right.’
‘It’s a common complaint.’
‘Can I pour you some more tea?’
‘I think wine more appropriate now.’
‘Good man.’
Blackthorne produced a corkscrew from his pocket and set to work. He drew the cork expertly and sniffed the end, nodding approvingly. He handed the cork to Gresse while he poured each of them a mouthful to taste. The two barons sniffed, sipped, rolled and swallowed.
‘A red to satisfy the desire for a full body, a head of blackcurrant and an aftertaste of dark plum,’ said Gresse. ‘Outstanding. We should have ordered the steak.’
A servant stepped in, took the bottle from Blackthorne and poured each of them a full glass with a remarkably steady hand. The sounds of the enemy approaching were growing louder.
‘A little late for steak. Even for something blue.’
Gresse shifted his legs on their footstool. ‘Do you remember that time when we brokered that agreement with the Wesmen for a supply of each vintage?’
‘Interesting negotiations. I’m not sure they were ready for the concept of laying down a wine for a decade.’
‘Who was that idiot who insisted on broaching a bottle of the thirty-eight vintage?’
Blackthorne chuckled. A detonation sounded away to the east. He paused while the echoes faded. ‘Riasu. Almost choked on it. Nothing so sharp and unpleasant as a young wine.’
‘As I recall, he was keen to have us both divided in two,’ said Gresse. ‘Remember what you said about trusting the vintage?’
Blackthorne laughed out loud this time. He held up a finger and wagged it as he spoke. ‘ “Patience is the province of the civilised man. A fine wine is the fruit of that patience just as it is proof of the wisdom of its owner. However, if you are not completely satisfied when you come to open the first bottle in ten years’ time, I promise to provide you with a full refund. Just bring the shipment back to the castle and I’ll authorise payment on the instant.” I recall it as if it was yesterday.’
‘Lucky that envoy of Tessaya was listening in, I’d say.’
‘They were good days, Gresse.’
‘Damn it but they were, Blackthorne.’
The two barons clinked their glasses and drank deeply.
The footsteps drew ever closer. Gresse ignored the thudding steps, the drone of the machine and the calls of wolves. When you put your mind to it, it was quite easy.
‘We have company,’ said Blackthorne. ‘I’m proud to have called you my friend, Baron Gresse.’
‘And you likewise, Baron Blackthorne. Good hunting in the forests of your fathers.’
‘I’ll send you an invitation should I ever find them.’
Gresse turned to see the eight huge figures looming over them and the men who had refused to leave their sides.
‘Join us, the red is a quite superb vintage. Oh. I see.’
‘One cannot simply turn it off,’ snapped Septern. ‘Not without taking down the whole eastern side of the city.’
‘Do you see anyone who cares if that happens?’ Densyr pointed out towards the Garonin machine and the malevolent shapes of soldiers bounding over his rooftops. ‘It is only enemies out there. Take down every wall if you like. I don’t care. But do it quickly. Meanwhile, our enemies are sucking the life out of the Heart of Xetesk. It is an unsustainable loss. They are killing us from a distance. ’
‘And your friends? The Raven?’
Densyr bit his lip.
‘Casualties of war,’ he said, the words ash in his mouth.
‘Yet they represent the best alternative should we fail to hold the city.’
‘We will not fail,’ said Densyr. ‘We cannot.’
Septern held his gaze for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
Septern was pale, even for a dead man.
‘Whatever it is the Garonin are doing, it affects the souls of the dead or, rather, the mana surrounding them. The call to the void is strong and painful to resist. But don’t worry; I won’t let you down.’
Densyr let his eye wander out over his city once more. Way to the east, not far from the gate and in the shadow of the machine, he could see a fight going on. Garonin weapons were firing. At who? he wondered. It had to be Auum and his TaiGethen. A shame the elf had taken the wrong path. He would have been a useful ally today.
‘How long will it take you?’ asked Densyr.
‘That is hard to quantify right now. I need to understand the nature of the mana flow and the volume being dragged through the grid. There will inevitably be some risk attached to the shutdown procedure.’
Densyr’s eyes narrowed and he felt a chill anxiety in his gut.
‘Risk?’
‘Well, simply put, if I snap off the flow, two things happen. First, as I said, every ward will trigger because there is no longer a circuit, and hence no way to channel the mana away safely. But second, there will be far more mana in the grid than it was intended to support because of the Garonin action. There could be feedback.’
‘Feedback?’
Densyr’s anxiety had coalesced to dread.
‘Into the Heart. That’s why I have to know the level of the depletion. Because enough mana feeding back into the Heart all at once could, theoretically, destroy it.’
‘Theoretically?’
‘Well this has never been tested, as you can imagine . . .’
‘Stop blustering. What is your view? And let’s say for the sake of argument that the Garonin are dragging away half of the Heart’s power at any one time.’
Septern shrugged. ‘Theory would become practical reality.’
Ilkar had concentrated like he never had before and yet forming the shape of the spell had still been torturous. The pain in his chest was a constant drain on his concentration and the howling of the void echoed around his head. Yet here it was. An Ilkar’s Defence construct. Conical, formed of a lattice of yellow lines of mana, tightly bound. Slightly modulating but nothing serious, and rotating a little quickly. It would have to do.
With eyes and mind tuned to the mana spectrum, Ilkar could see the ward in front of the door through which The Unknown wanted to go. FlameOrbs would fly from it when it was triggered, he could see that now. On a spread that would cover a hundred men in flesh-dissolving mana fire. Best not to think about it.
‘Are you ready, Ilks? The Garonin will be tapping us on the shoulder if we wait much longer,’ said Hirad.
‘I’m not sure why I bothered,’ said Ilkar. ‘I completely forgot that all you have to do is open your big fat mouth and the FlameOrbs will get sucked right in. Idiot. And yes, I’m ready.’
Ilkar nailed his concentration back down to the spell. He made sure he was standing square in front of the door. He checked again that the spell diameter would cover the spread of the ward. He took a deep breath.
‘Tuck in behind Ilkar, Jonas,’ said The Unknown. ‘Sirendor, behind me.’
Ilkar glanced over his shoulder. Hirad winked at him.