It was a quiet short-lived. A wailing blare came from the floating machine and a melodious call from the mouth of every Garonin. As one, their weapons turned on Densyr’s tower and an extraordinary weight of fire deluged the ancient bound stone.
The courtyard rippled again, and this time, from beneath the stones, he saw a flash of blue light.
All three mages had Ilkar’s Defence spells running and spread on as broad a front as they could manage. The intensity of Garonin fire scorched paper inside the wrecked chamber as the heat spiralled.
Sol tried to protect his family as best he could. Auum and his Tai had fled the chamber to join Thraun’s attack on the Garonin directly above. Sirendor was trying desperately to keep Hirad from suffocating. Ilkar, Densyr and Dystran, faces drawn into rictus grins by the strain, were clinging on but the Julatsan was struggling. Ilkar was quivering all over and a strangled choke was being dragged from his throat.
‘Can’t do this,’ he croaked.
‘Hang on, Ilkar. Hang on.’
But Sol didn’t know what for or for how long. In his chair Septern twitched and muttered. They had felt the heaving of the floor beneath them and Dystran had shouted something about the Heart but that was all.
‘Re. Re. Pel.’ Septern’s eyes opened briefly, fluttered and closed again. ‘Fo . . . usss.’
Blue flame encased the tower. Denser and Dystran screamed and clutched at their heads. Defence spells failed. Enemies dropped into their midst, followed by the feet and blades of the TaiGethen. A wind howled through the tower, threatening to pluck them all from their precarious perch and throw them down to their deaths.
Sol crouched and laid his arms across his family. The flame gathered density; it curled and twisted into a spire above them, wreathing and pulsing. The pressure built quickly. Septern was juddering in his chair as if shaken by unseen hands. Densyr was flat on his back, tears streaming from his eyes. Dystran was unconscious.
The Garonin fire increased but every tear that hit the mana spire deflected harmlessly away. The spire’s blue deepened almost to black and a spear of mana punched upwards and crashed into the underside of the machine, knocking it sideways through the air. The carriage hanging beneath it disintegrated in a ball of flame, scattering debris and bodies to fall to the earth.
Briefly, the colour of the spire lightened. Septern squeezed his eyes shut. Another spear shot up. This one skewered the machine’s bulbous bell.
‘Oh dear God’s falling,’ whispered Sol.
The machine exploded. White, blue and grey light flashed like hot sun into a blackout room. Flame ripped across the circumference of the bell. Repeated detonations rippled its hide, sending fresh flame clawing at the sky. The shock wave reflected down, rattling the tower and sending a great swathe of heat across the college. Flame dispersed over the cylinder of mana encircling the tower.
The machine hung in tatters in the air for a moment, flaps of burning skin clinging to the ribs of its skeleton, before dipping left and crashing down onto the east walls. Sol could hear the screams of Garonin soldiers. Melodious no more but a lament just the same.
Spells still fell, taking out the remaining invaders. Sol slowly dragged himself to his feet. He could hear cheering from the courtyard. And barked orders. Suarav and Chandyr were still cautious. Sol looked down on his family. Diera was cuddling young Hirad, whose shocked white face stared into his.
‘It’s all right now, little one,’ said Sol. ‘It’s all over for now.’
‘We’ve won,’ breathed Densyr. ‘We’ve actually won.’
Jonas stirred from his slumber in the mind of Sha-Kaan and his face was full of regret.
‘No, Lord Densyr, I’m afraid we haven’t.’
Chapter 32
TaiGethen had found and secured the old trail that ran from the abandoned, destroyed Wesman fishing village on North Bay. It ran away through the foothills of Sunara’s Teeth and down a long tree-studded valley that stretched away out of sight and led, they had to hope, through the mountains and into Wesman lands proper. The valley was broad and its slopes ran up to a jumble of outcrops and crags. It was bleak but the air was fresh. The scents of the land and of Tual’s creatures gave the ClawBound panthers a strut to their stride.
While Al-Arynaar disembarked elves on the beach before moving them on in ordered groups to the first of the camps just to the south of the old village, Rebraal was with the forward party, looking for a second campsite. The day was young and the ground was easy. Panthers scouted ahead while their Bound elves ran the flanks of the force of thirty TaiGethen cells and four hundred Al-Arynaar.
Dila’heth was at his side. She, like every Al-Arynaar mage, wore the cloak of loss that Julatsa’s fall had thrown about their shoulders. They could still cast, but even the simplest spell had been rendered difficult, tiring and even dangerous.
‘How will it feel in our new home?’ asked Rebraal.
‘Different,’ said Dila. ‘We have little expectation of being able to cast in a wholly separate dimension. But mana is everywhere, and if it should exist there, we can eventually build a new Heart to focus it. We will have hope for the future once we have arrived home. Here, we have precious little.’
Heat blossomed to their right. The ground heaved and shuddered. Rebraal pitched forward, turning a forward roll before coming back to a crouch. Elves across the force stopped to look. A ClawBound panther’s mournful warning echoed against mountain and valley side.
And there they were. Blinking out of nowhere. Standing still for a few moments before marching downslope, firing as they came. Garonin. Hundreds of them.
‘Shields!’ yelled Rebraal as the first teardrops tore into the Al-Arynaar. ‘Dila, get your mages casting whatever they can. Al-Arynaar, we are attacked. Break and skirmish. Go!’
Explosions ripped up the ground at Rebraal’s feet. He hurled himself left and rolled into the lee of a standing stone. Back along the elven line, he saw his brothers and sisters ripped to shreds by the concentration of fire from the Garonin weapons. Blood misted in the air, mingling with the screams of the injured and dying.
He drew his blade.
‘How did they find us so soon?’
But there was no one to answer. The TaiGethen were on the attack. A ClawBound elf stood astride a Garonin soldier, plunging his sharpened nails into flesh again and again until the white fire blew his head from his shoulders. Time to fight. Time to die. Rebraal raced up the slope, rage blinding his fear.
‘Al-Arynaar. For Tual! For Yniss and for your brothers!’
Rebraal ducked under a Garonin weapon and rammed his sword up and into the neck of his enemy. The man gurgled and collapsed. Rebraal pulled his blade clear. Left, the TaiGethen were too quick for the ponderous Garonin. Elves leapt, spun and kicked at the huge invaders. They dropped, rolled and dodged. Their strikes were fast and deadly.
Bodies littered the valley side. Small fires burned all over. Rebraal ran back into the thickening smoke at the centre of the fight. Ten Al-Arynaar were with him. Once the shock of the appearance of the Garonin force had dissipated, the elves had quickly split to surround their foe. With the TaiGethen leading the way, they had got in amongst the Garonin, making every shot they fired a risk to their own.
Ahead of Rebraal, a stream of teardrops pulsed from a weapon, deluging a pair of Al-Arynaar not quick enough to dive aside. The next instant, a TaiGethen boot had kicked the weapon aside and a jaqrui throwing crescent had lodged in its wielder’s helmet. The Garonin fell, the last thing he would have seen, the blade that took him through the eye.