Lisutaris hands the thazis stick to Makri. Then the Sorcerer raises her arms in the air, one hand pointing at each dragon, and starts to intone a spell. It's not one I'm familiar with. Though I've a reasonable knowledge of most magical lore, it's not even a language I'm familiar with. It's a harsh, guttural incantation, and as she recites it Harmon Half Elf looks very uncomfortable and
Anumaris Thunderbolt seems surprised. Coranus the Grinder nods in approval. I'd guess that this spell is something particularly unpleasant that the Sorcerers Guild would normally leave in the vaults. Something that Lisutaris would only dredge up in the direst emergency.
It's already as cold as the Ice Queen's grave. As Lisutaris chants the spell, it somehow becomes colder. The Ice Queen's grave seems to open up and engulf us in a freezing void. There's a great roar of rushing wind, and two shafts of dark purple light fly from Lisutaris's hands up into the sky, one striking each dragon. Their cries of rage and pain are terrible to hear, drowning out even the roar of battle. The dragons halt in mid air, writhing, before Lisutaris draws her hands downwards, pulling them from the sky. As she does this, several bolts of light fly through the air towards her. The dragons are carrying Sorcerers and they're fighting back. Their bolts strike Lisutaris, shaking her, but she remains upright, still supported by Makri. For a moment time stands still. The dragons are motionless in the sky as Lisutaris strives against their own colossal strength and the sorcery of their Orcish riders. Then something gives, and the dragons cease to beat their wings. They plummet towards the earth, heading straight for the Orcish phalanx. As they hit the ground, both dragons explode in flames.
'That's not something you see every day,' mutters Makri.
The Orcish phalanx is destroyed by the force of the explosion. The remaining Orcish troops scatter before the flames. Lisutaris falls to the ground. I pick her up, sling her over my shoulder, and order my men forward.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Ores have scattered in confusion. I lead my company directly between the flaming corpses of the dragons. Thick oily smoke pours from the bodies of the beasts, now burning with some evil sorcerous fire conjured up by Lisutaris. We're no more than fifty yards from the gates and I'm praying that someone inside the city will seize the opportunity of opening them and letting us in before the Ores can regroup.
Lisutaris weighs heavily on my shoulder but I keep going. If we miss this chance we're not going to get another. The gates open. The trapped Turanian troops leave the shelter of their wagons and run towards the city. We follow on. We're still some way from the walls when I sense a hostile spell on its way. The ground shakes beneath my feet. I'm hit by what feels like a hammer to the back of the head. My protection charm keeps me alive but it doesn't stop the pain. I sag to my knees, dropping Lisutaris. It's a terrible struggle getting up again. Even Makri is slow to rise.
'What the . . .?'
Harmon, Coranus and Anumaris help each other to their feet. The Sorcerers are wearing spell protection charms, as are Makri and I. They're rare items. My troops didn't have them. None of them are rising to their feet. As my head slowly clears I find that we're not alone. We're faced by twelve Ores. Three Sorcerers, seven warriors and two who look like they might be officers. One of the Sorcerers is Horm the Dead. Lisutaris stirs at my feet. Horm glares down at her.
'You killed my dragon,' he says, sounding pained. 'It was my favourite.'
He shifts his gaze to Makri. Rather longingly, I think. If he offers her flowers again I'll kill him with my bare hands. But if Horm is about to speak further, he halts himself as one of the officers steps forward. A tall Ore, not bulky, but strong-looking, with fine black armour, long black hair, and a small circlet of gold on his brow. Not quite as craggy as his followers. I realise that it's Prince Amrag himself.
He regards us for a few seconds. Then he looks curiously at Makri. Lisutaris hauls herself upright. Prince Amrag's guards step forward anxiously, to protect their leader from the Human Sorcerer. Amrag glances ques-tioningly towards Horm.
'They have no sorcery left,' says Horm.
And neither have you,' responds Lisutaris.
'Regrettably, no,' admits Horm. 'We were obliged to expend all our efforts in saving our lives when you brought us down from the sky.'
Even here on the battlefield, Horm, with his pale skin, languid manners and long cloak, cuts an unusual figure.
'But we do have an army,' adds Horm, and gestures behind him to where around a thousand Orcish warriors are charging towards us. I push Lisutaris in the direction of the city wall.
'Go,' I say, 'now,' and gesture for the Sorcerers to flee.
Harmon and Anumaris need no encouragement. Lisutaris hesitates, but Coranus the Grinder grabs her tattered cloak and drags her off. Makri and I draw our swords, planning to sell our lives gaining the Sorcerers the few seconds they need to reach the city. The thick smoke from the flaming dragons is still billowing around our heads. I'm expecting Prince Amrag to order his bodyguards to set off in pursuit. Seven warriors. Makri and I can hold them till the rest of the army arrives. The Prince, however, issues no orders. He looks at Makri again, then speaks, this time in the common Human tongue, which few Ores know.
'Hello, sister.'
'Hello, brother.'
'I admired your progress. Champion gladiator.'
'You left me in the slave pits to die,' says Makri.
Prince Amrag shrugs.
And now you fight for Turai?'
'I do.'
'Would you wish to join my army?'
Makri spits on the ground.
A small chuckle escapes from the Prince's lips.
'The unclean Elvish blood. It always caused problems.'
He glances over our shoulders.
'They're closing the gates. If you wish to re-enter your city, you had better leave now. I'll be joining you inside soon enough.'
Makri dithers, as if about to say something more. I grab her and drag her after me, through the thick smoke, through the still falling snow, towards the great East Gate. It's swinging shut as we arrive. I let out a series of the foulest and loudest curses. Mercifully someone takes heed. The gate opens a few inches, we squeeze though, and then it's closed. Heavy bolts are drawn and huge metal bars descend to reinforce it. We're the last people back in Turai. I turn to Makri.
'Hello, sister? Sister? Prince Amrag is your brother?'
'Half-brother. Same father, different mother. He has no Elvish blood.'
'Have you known this all along?'
Makri shakes her head.
'I never knew what became of him after he escaped from the slave pits.'
All around us is confusion. There's no sign of Lisutaris.
'What do we do now?' asks Makri. 'Man the walls?'
A good question.'
I don't really know what to do. No one has prepared for this eventuality. There's no designated meeting point for defeated soldiers straggling back into the city. I've no idea where to go. Some battalions of soldiers, still intact, are already on the walls. Others are rushing up the steps to take up positions. I should join them somewhere but I don't know where.
'I should find Lisutaris,' says Makri.
I walk along after Makri. It's a long time since I've felt quite so unsure of myself. Perhaps I should head back to Twelve Seas, climb on to the nearest bit of the wall, and wait for the Ores to attack. Or maybe I should wait nearer the East Gate in case the Ores break through here first. I don't know.
Just inside the eastern wall lie the pleasure gardens. The ponds are frozen over and the trees are covered in snow. The frozen ground is littered with dead and wounded, soldiers who've been helped back into the city by their comrades. Turai has not made provision for so many casualties. Doctors, herbalists and apothecaries were not yet prepared for this. Wounded men lie in the trampled snow, unattended.