Dystran felt a gentle buffeting. The remains of Septern’s grid were still dangerous. The power held within was not bleeding away as he had hoped; rather it was building up at critical nodes. It was an irritation in his search for a way to repeat what the master mage had done.
The fluctuation from the Heart took him completely by surprise. A mass of mana, like a skull trailing fire, burst from its centre, upsetting the dance of power. It scorched the edges of his mind as it plunged deep into the ground. Dystran tried to track its movement but it was gone so quickly. Someone was casting something ancient and terrible.
The Heart had not regained its placidity before huge shapes appeared on the periphery of his senses. Spasmodic with clashing mana and reaching towards him with tendrils that became arms ending in claws, opening and closing, grabbing. Five of them.
They were seeking him and soon they would find him.
Dystran retreated within himself and called out for aid.
Chapter 34
The next impact cast Suarav from his feet and sent him rolling down the shattered steps of the tower complex. He scrabbled upright and backed away a few paces. His team had been scattered but all seemed to be moving. The brief hurricane of air had been forced out of the broken doors, catching them square on. Left and right, other teams still stood under their shields while mages tried desperately to shore up the weakening bindings of the towers that made up the circle of six and the seat of the Lord of the Mount.
Tower Prexys was teetering. A hole had been driven through it on a diagonal from upper chambers to servants’ quarters. The pinnacle was rocking. Slate and stone was tumbling onto what remained of the complex’s dome.
‘Oh dear Gods burning,’ breathed Suarav. He began to run. ‘Cover. Cover! Prexys is falling! Shields now.’
In the darkest moments of the worst nightmares of any Xeteskian, the towers of the college would fall, signalling the end of everything. So it was that Suarav felt tears welling as he shouted his warnings. He could see it with his own eyes and still he didn’t believe it.
In front of him, mages were casting. No longer were there any hands on the stonework of the complex, feeding binding spells into the towers. Instead, shield after shield ghosted into existence, hoping to shelter men and women from the falling tower. Suarav ducked back under cover by Chandyr, who sported a deep cut on his left cheek from a flying piece of debris. His expression was bleak, his eyes betraying fading hope.
‘That we should see this day,’ he said.
‘Strength, old friend,’ said Suarav, wiping the tears from his face.
Prexys bulged a third of its way down as the weight above defeated the compromised structure below. The rending sound ricocheted across the courtyard. Beams snapped, steel supports sheared. Bricks and slabs of stone broke free. The pinnacle collapsed inwards. Wood and slates thundered through the weakened structure causing fatal damage.
Slowly, desperately, Prexys toppled. Showering loose stone and glass, the top section fell to the east, its ragged end cannoning into the bottom section, ripping away what little support remained. Every head turned to watch. Chandyr clutched Suarav’s shoulder.
Three hundred feet tall. Over a thousand years old in its current form and a survivor of wars, the mana storms of the last days of the One magic, and the worst nature could throw. Tens of thousands of tons of stone, flashing with the breaking of bound mana, came down. The two sections struck the complex roof one after the other, bursting through or sliding from it. A torrent of crushing weight followed by a storm of choking dust. And a barrage of noise so deep and intense it drew a scream from Suarav’s mouth.
Around the edge of the complex, far from the collapse, people hugged each other until it was over. Inside the damage zone, mages fought to keep their shields strong enough to deflect even the largest slab of masonry. Not all succeeded. The sheer mass of stone sent a shock wave throughout the whole complex. Thirty yards to Suarav’s left, the wall of the dome blew out, simply sweeping away the team that had been standing there. When the dust cleared enough to see, there was nothing to show that they had been there at all.
The echoes of the fall rippled away. Stones still tumbled over one another inside the dome. Everywhere was coated with a thick film of dust and more fell all the while. In the sky, the Garonin machines readied for another assault.
‘What do we do now?’ yelled a mage into Suarav’s face. ‘Look what they’ve done. First of seven. First of seven.’
‘Control your fear. We cannot afford to lose anyone to despair,’ said Suarav.
‘So much for binding the walls and forcing a bottleneck at the catacombs,’ said Chandyr. ‘They’re going straight through the ground, aren’t they?’
Suarav nodded. He dared a glance up. One of the machines was all but prepared. Above it, the sky was dark with a swirling cloud, but beneath it, right below the carriage suspended underneath, a dazzling light shone. It was coiled about by mist and fog. While he watched, the light moved from yellow to white, the mist thickened and a beam struck down. It bored through the dome roof where Prexys had been and caused devastation in the catacombs that he was scared even to consider. The beam moved in a tight circle and then shut off, leaving an edge around his vision.
‘We cannot reach them,’ said Chandyr. ‘Their foot soldiers are dispersed through the city, hunting down our people. We should try and protect those we can.’
‘Our duty is here,’ said Suarav.
‘But we can do nothing.’
‘We can bind the walls more strongly, we can invest in the stone of the catacombs. Spread a shield across the whole damned place. I don’t know, but we have to find a way. I am not leaving here without the Lord of the Mount.’
But as he watched the machines in the sky and saw the cloud pillar moving ever faster as yet another detonation built within it, he wondered at his own mind. Because this didn’t smell like mana collection any more. More like straightforward annihilation.
‘ “Where the door lies, the elders know, yet their voices are silent,” ’ intoned Densyr, reading from one of the scripts Sharyr held for him.
‘ “Entry is only granted to those free of their mortal shackles. Free to travel, free to find rest. Their Gods shall guide them and their souls shall know peace.” ’
He waved the parchment away.
‘So speaks the lore of Xetesk.’
Densyr knelt on the stone floor facing Sol and Diera. Young Hirad and Jonas were still in the room and Vuldaroq had managed to move close enough to them to offer any comfort he could. Auum’s Tai had not lifted their heads from their prayer.
Densyr’s back was straight and his hands rested in his lap. From what Ilkar could gather of the technical part of the lore Densyr had read out, this casting was as much meditation as mana shape building. Another day, in another life, Ilkar would have been fascinated by the whole process. But right now all he wanted was for it to be over.
From the moment Ilkar had known Densyr was actually prepared to perform the ritual, the pain in his borrowed body had deepened and the gale trying to snatch his soul away to the void had strengthened. To such an extent indeed that he found it a challenge to hear anything that was being said and harder still to concentrate. A quick glance at Sirendor and Thraun told him they felt the same. Hirad surely would not last long with his defences so low.
‘I will now perform the ritual. It has no words but it requires peace. Please, then, do not speak until I do. Sol, Diera. When the ritual requires its soul of free will, the shape will be stable enough for you to have the time you need.’
Sol nodded. Diera looked blank and confused.