But Rebraal had problems of his own. A large number of reavers, well into three figures, was rushing at the front wagons from both flanks, from ahead and, inevitably, from above. Taunting and laughing, they dove into the ColdRoom shell whose effects clearly lessened by the day.

‘Keep those horses forward. Blinkers tight!’

The lead wave swooped over the front wagons and drove on headlong.

‘Yniss preserve us,’ muttered Rebraal.

His sword in his right hand, his left squeezed Brynn’s shoulder and they were engulfed.

‘Brace!’ he yelled.

The cursyrd struck the wagon, more of them than he could quickly count. He placed his body in front of Brynn, turning his back to the impact and feeling claws rake his armour and teeth graze the top of his head.

‘Still here,’ said Brynn.

In front of them, the horses bucked and Brynn struggled to control them, demanding calm. Al-Arynaar carved the air around them, beating back the reavers intent on ripping out their eyes and throats.

Rebraal straightened, sword whipping out in a wide arc. He felt it catch the wing of a cursyrd which squealed and twisted upwards, colour flaring a bright red. He took in the quick view. The roof of the wagon was threatened. The cursyrd’s charge had taken three elves from their precarious canvas perch to a fight in the dust and grass behind. Two remained. Rebraal glanced across Brynn.

‘Gheneer, keep him safe.’

The Al-Arynaar nodded, not breaking from the fight. Rebraal jumped onto the canvas, felt for a strut and balanced instantly, the wagon bucking beneath him. The Al-Arynaar with him fought hard and fast. A sword sliced high into the chest of a cursyrd. A kick to the stomach saw it from the wagon. Another lost an arm to a downward slash and took off, wailing and cursing.

Rebraal took in three, two others flying to join one with its claws already rending canvas. The Al-Arynaar leader took a pace to the next strut and smashed his left foot into its head. The creature somersaulted backwards, wings flailing to break its fall and propel it back into the air. The other two flew on, back-beating their wings, wary of the elf barring their way. Rebraal stood over the tear, sword in two hands, waiting.

They came in left and right. Rebraal smiled and feinted left, ducking low. He jabbed upwards, his sword driving deep between the cursyrd’s legs. It screeched, dark gore pouring from the wound. Rebraal twisted the blade and dragged it clear, surging upright and in the same moment beating his right foot into the midriff of the second creature. Off-balance, it couldn’t drag its arms back quickly enough to stop the elf’s blade puncturing its chest.

Keeping himself moving, Rebraal headed down the wagon towards the rear. The remaining two Al-Arynaar were heavily engaged, strike-strain adding to their problems. He pulled a reaver back by the neck, his sword grating against its spine on the way through its body. He threw the corpse aside. The elf in front of him nodded his thanks, backhanded his blade into the face of another enemy and turned for the next.

Reavers filled the air above them. Al-Arynaar were climbing back up the sides of the wagon. Rebraal looked into the body of the carriage, saw the upturned faces of the guards and the bowed heads of mages. So far, the shell remained protected and intact. But with the air full of cursyrd and The Raven nowhere to be seen, they would have to fight well to keep it that way.

Chapter 30

Dystran had felt it like they all had. The demons’ extraordinary withdrawal to gather at the periphery of Xetesk the day before had allowed them not just to relieve the library of a mass of texts but to go among the people and reassure them of their intentions; bring in fresh food from the farms within the city; gain information about the demons and their ways; and most importantly, bask in the mana stream in the open air and sample the spectrum.

But they had been reluctant to move too far out. Over two years of imprisonment had taken their toll and each mage and soldier could see danger and death in every shadow and corner they passed.

The Lord of the Mount stood on the walls of his college above the main gates and looked out over the city. He could see demons in the sky way to the south where the spectrum was in complete turmoil. The Julatsans were coming.

‘What do you think it means?’ asked Prexys, one of the surviving members of the Circle Seven.

‘Opportunity or desperation. Probably both.’ Dystran smiled, luxuriating in the fresh air. ‘But I still can’t work out why they have left us so alone.’

‘Perhaps they are under more pressure out there than they expected. ’

‘I can’t see it,’ said Dystran. ‘There are so many of them. But even those coming out of the tear are heading straight out there. Whatever the size of force that’s heading this way, they certainly don’t want it arriving.’

Prexys shook his head. ‘Julatsa. What must have happened to drive them out?’

‘Be a shame not to find out, wouldn’t it?’ said Dystran. He turned to Chandyr and Vuldaroq. ‘Gentlemen, are we not honour-bound to help our people under duress? Tell me, Chandyr, do you think they are heading this way?’

‘There’s no doubt about it but they are in a great deal of trouble. I’ve had mages in the sky over the college and they can see the dust cloud but it’s almost covered by a cloud of demons. I don’t recommend we leave here to help them but we can plan to smooth their progress through the city.’

‘Wards, waymarks and mage defender trios, those we can spare,’ said Dystran. ‘But do not compromise the defence of the college, that would be foolhardy in the extreme.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Good. I want sight of your plans so be quick. We have limited time.’ He turned to Vuldaroq. ‘Meanwhile, I think you and I would be well used looking at a few more texts. There has to be more we can discover.’

‘I concur,’ said Vuldaroq.

‘Good. Then let’s be about our business. And Chandyr?’

‘My Lord Dystran.’

‘Arrange a delegation to visit the Wesmen, would you? I’ll prepare a message. I think it’s time we invited Tessaya to the party.’

‘Slow that wagon!’ Rebraal straight-punched a cursyrd on his way to the back of the canvas, seeing one of the third wagon pair closing too fast, driver smothered in strike-strain. ‘Al-Arynaar to the rear.’

He swore under his breath. Behind him, Brynn called a warning. Swinging round, he saw the right-hand lead wagon veer sharply away, chased hard by a pack of some twenty reavers. It was the resting wagon, it had to be. No mage could have retained a ColdRoom structure at that pace. And Pheone was inside it. A cloud of strike-strain swooped overhead and plunged onto the roof, claws jabbing into the already damaged covers. Still standing, three Al-Arynaar laid about them with blade and knife, trying for Auum’s trademark killing blow, but they’d surely soon be overwhelmed.

‘Guard the casting wagon!’ he yelled, kicking out at a lone strike-strain, catching it in the gut. ‘Dammit.’ He tugged the sleeve of an elf. ‘Hold this roof.’

Rebraal dropped down next to Brynn. ‘Straight on. Don’t flinch.’

Brynn’s face ran with blood. To his left, Gheneer kept two reavers at bay. Rebraal snatched a strike-strain from Brynn’s back and crushed it under his foot.

‘Don’t be too long,’ growled the human.

Rebraal jumped to the packed earth and sprinted away towards the stricken wagon. Around him, a storm of noise and chaos was breaking. The wagon-pair captains roared orders. Al-Arynaar warriors tore into their attackers and amongst the thud of weapons, he could pick out the screams of those whom the cursyrd overwhelmed.

Ignoring the fighting that closed in around him, Rebraal focused on the wagon. The reavers had caught it and were engaged on its roof, at its rear and were tearing at its sides. Above, a ForceCone launched from one of the mana holes, battered brief respite into the horde of strike-strain that threatened the driver and his guards before it dissipated quickly within the shell.