‘The gate!’ yelled Kard. ‘Hold the gate!’ As if to reinforce his words, the powerful thud of a battering-ram shuddered through the stone of the north gatehouse. Immediately, spells arced out and down, but barely had the fires died than the scattered Wesmen were back on the ram, sensing victory.

From the south, the roar of attack grew as Wesmen forced further inroads on the walls and a woman screamed as one found his way to the inner courtyard before being felled by a townsman.

The defence crumbled so quickly. Catapult rounds smashed anew inside the College, the ram thumped again and again into the North Gate, its iron-clad timbers creaking, WardLocks fizzing and repair crews fighting desperately to reinforce it. A dozen wall breaches of varying severity had left the defenders ragged when Kard turned to Barras, wiping blood from his face.

‘Now is the time,’ said the General.

‘No, we can hold them,’ said Barras, eyes searching for hope but finding none. Kard gripped his arm.

‘No, Barras, we cannot. Now go. I will shield you.’ The elven mage clasped arms with Kard, his face grim.

‘Goodbye, old friend.’

‘Do what you have to do,’ said Kard gruffly. ‘I am a better man for knowing you.’

But still a dead one, thought Barras. He ran for the stairs and as he did so, five mages detached themselves from the fighting and made their way to join him. They were the chosen whose task guaranteed their deaths but enshrined their memories forever.

As he ran to the Tower, the calls of Kard ringing loud in his ears, the tumult all around him a muted roar, Barras scanned the southern ramparts for Kerela, smiling as he saw the High Mage pointing out over the city, directing spell and soldier alike. As if feeling eyes on her back, she turned and caught sight of Barras who slowed to a standstill. For a moment, the two elves stared at one another, every time they had shared passing between them.

Barras felt a warm gentle ManaPulse bloom against his body. Kerela smiled, nodded slightly and waved. Barras returned the gesture then ran on to the Tower, drinking in everything and knowing he would never see any of it again.

Chapter 28

Lord Senedai sauntered among the ruins of the College while his warriors readied themselves for the fast march south. He’d known the boy mage would talk. Good with his magic but weak-willed under torture. It had been a bonus that he had been found weakened and in the infirmary. The others of the Council, old strong-heads, he’d simply put to death. It was the only way to reduce the danger. All except Barras. He had eluded them so far but then the College was vast underground - any coward could run and hide.

But before he left Julatsa, Senedai would keep his promise. He would have the head of the elf negotiator. Only then would he ride after The Raven who held the weapon to win the war, the weapon to bring dragons to Balaia. The weapon that would fulfil the myth of doom for the peoples of the West. His bird was already flying to alert Tessaya.

‘Barras, where are you hiding?’ Senedai was walking across the courtyard surrounding the Tower. His men marauded through the College; the cobbles were awash with the blood of mages. Their bodies littered the ramparts, the ground at his feet and the halls of their burning ancient buildings while their beloved people cowered under guard at the South Gate. For those who had so recently been released from the grain store the swift return to captivity was almost too much to bear and the weeping from men and women alike spoke everything about the mood of the surviving Julatsans. Crushed without hope of rescue. No one would come to save them now and every head was bowed in miserable submission.

Their soldiers, brave in the face of overwhelming odds, would, those that still lived, be given the honour of choice. To die a warrior’s death or take enslavement. For the townsfolk, no such honour would be bestowed. They would rebuild their city for their new masters.

Senedai stopped walking. The answer to his question stared him full in the face. The Tower.

It alone stood undamaged by fire and force of Wesmen. Any mages left, those not running scared in the catacombs, and he had no doubt there were some, were plainly hoping the Wesmen fear of magic would keep them away from the hub of the College. Wrong. The College was broken, the Tower now just another building awaiting clearance.

Senedai smiled to himself. At least, that was the theory. The practice, as its unblemished stones testified, was very different. Every Wesman feared the power within a mage Tower but it was surely a power that had been lessened by the deaths of so many of its mages. He summoned half a dozen men to his side, dismissing their anxiety with a wave of his hand, so bolstering his own fragile confidence.

‘The College is ours,’ he said. ‘Any inside are scared and beaten. Follow me and we will secure the ultimate victory.’

Almost immediately on entering, the weight began to build. Senedai’s men could feel it too. An oppressive atmosphere that pushed on the shoulders and neck, constricted the throat and shot lead through the limbs. It only served to heighten their unease and Senedai fought not to stutter in his stride and convey his own thoughts.

The Wesman Lord feared having to search the entire Tower for his quarry but needn’t have. Once inside and moving around the central column, he could hear voices coming from below, murmuring and chanting.

He led his men down a short flight of stairs which hugged the outer wall. At the bottom of the stairs, a single door, outside of which stood a man whom Senedai recognised. The Wesman advanced, sword in hand.

‘Ah, the senile last line of defence,’ he said.

‘And one that kept your gutless, brainless hordes at bay for twelve days,’ said General Kard. ‘And I will personally see to it that you get no further.’ Kard’s sword was at ready but he made no move to attack.

‘This is a time for honourable surrender. The fight is over,’ said Senedai.

‘How little you know.’ Behind the closed door the voices rose in volume and pace, cut off sharply and were replaced by one; strong, confident, determined. Barras.

‘Get out of my way or I will cut you down,’ snarled Senedai.

‘So be it.’ Kard lunged forwards, his sword flashing in the lamp light. It was a quick strike but his age and exertion told against him and Senedai was able to block it aside and return a stab Kard moved smartly to avoid. To either side of Senedai, his men moved to attack, axes falling simultaneously. Kard’s sword diverted one but the other thudded into his shoulder, driving him to his knees.

Kard’s sword clattered to the floor and he fell back against the door, free hand clutching at his wound as the blood poured down his arm and chest. His eyes flickered and he gasped with pain. Senedai squatted in front of him.

‘You are a brave man, General Kard. But foolish. There was no need for you to die.’

Kard shook his head but was unable to raise it to face Senedai. ‘Wrong,’ he mumbled as his last breath rattled into his lungs. ‘There was every need.’

At a gesture, one of the warriors pulled Kard’s body to one side. Behind the door, the voice had ceased. The Tower shifted gently, dust drifting from timbers and stone.

‘The door,’ snapped Senedai. ‘Quickly.’

It was locked but an expertly placed boot had it shivering back on its hinges. Inside, six mages knelt in a circle in the centre of a room covered in books and parchments. Again the Tower moved, a more definite displacement this time. The sound of pottery breaking on stone was heard. The atmosphere of dread washed out into the corridor. Senedai stepped back a pace, his warriors more. The air was chokingly thick, deadening thought and muscle. Now the Tower shuddered, lamps fell from the walls and the sound of breaking glass echoed through the building. The Wesmen staggered; one fell, cracking his head against a wall; others exchanged anxious glances, tongues licking dry lips.