conversing, yet without words. Gresse exchanged a glance with his captain, who shrugged his own uncertainty.
‘I will have a response,’ said Gresse at length.
The centremost figure turned back to him.
‘My… apologies. Your language is seldom heard and less well understood.’
Gresse was startled. The words flowed like music, though slightly discordant. Symbols on the figure’s clothing shone briefly. The figure cleared his throat and this time was beautifully in tune.
‘That is better. We cannot accede to your request. Our route takes us one way only. If you stand on your lands as you say then we shall be walking across them. The lines of energy dictate such. But have no concern. We will take nothing that we do not need. We are simple foragers but we must collect or many will perish.’
‘Collect what?’ asked Gresse, transported so far by the gorgeous tones of the figure’s voice that he found it hard to be angered by the rebuff.
‘Material for our fight. Energy for our weapons and strength for our armour. Our foe grows more powerful and our need grows with it. If we are not to be defeated, we must bring fuel for our fires. Clear the path. Our time is precious.’
Gresse held up both hands, the spell of the glorious male voice broken.
‘Whoa, whoa! I don’t think so, forager. These are my lands and I decide who crosses them. And you will turn aside and you will not operate that machine in my country. You are destroying our lands and that cannot be allowed.’
The forager glanced back over his shoulder. Gresse thought he might have seen the ghost of a shrug.
‘Damage is temporary. Your vegetation will regrow.’
Gresse gaped. ‘Temporary? You bastard.’ He jabbed a finger at the devastation. ‘People lived out there. They won’t regrow, will they?’
‘People must learn to avoid the compass of the vydosphere. Until then, there will, unfortunately, be casualties.’
Gresse looked briefly at his captain. The soldier stared back, shaking his head, mirroring the baron’s disbelief.
‘And you think I’m just going to let you amble across my lands and swallow your temporary damage and unfortunate casualties, is that right?’
The forager straightened; Gresse hadn’t realised he was leaning forward. The other two turned their heads and there was another silent exchange.
‘We consider that you have no choice. We are Garonin. Stand aside. Our conversation is at an end.’
‘Damn right,’ said Gresse. ‘Captain, let’s cut these bastards down to size.’
Gresse heard the noise of the machine roaring back into life. He heard his captain order the attack. He even drew the sword one of Blackthorne’s men had lent him. And the last things he remembered clearly were the sensations of swift airborne travel and of heavy impact.
‘Take them down, take them down!’ yelled Blackthorne at his mages.
The baron was already running towards Gresse, who had landed in a heap and rolled three times before coming to a stop. Action was all that prevented Blackthorne from refusing to believe what he had just seen. A brief conversation, plenty of finger pointing and, latterly, drawn swords. But never mind all that. Lines on the armour of the figures had blazed with light which had lashed out at Gresse and his men.
The invaders themselves didn’t so much as move a muscle. Yet Gresse was hurled fully fifty yards back and he was the lucky one. Others who had rushed in more quickly were lying dismembered amongst the first row of vines. A few had survived the initial onslaught and were being ignored by their attackers while they screamed their agony clinging onto the stumps of hands, fought with boiling entrails or stared wide-eyed at terrible gashes. And all in the blink of an eye.
The invaders moved on. One stopped to brush what must have been gore from his boot and then all reassumed their long, casual stride, the machine following in their wake.
‘Get messengers back to the lodge. Every mage to be ready. Every horseman saddled and awaiting a message to take out to the cities and towns.’
Blackthorne shouted his orders over his shoulder as he ran headlong down the slope, using vines to break his speed. Gresse was moving but it meant little. One leg was broken at the knee and jammed under his body at a sickening angle. There was crimson staining the dry earth. The enemy would roll right over him.
Every fear that Blackthorne had for Balaia surfaced once more. Every nightmare revisited him in those few moments while he slipped and slithered to his friend. And all that Gresse had said so recently hung in the air to taunt him.
The air flashed yellow. Blackthorne turned to see God’s Eyes arcing high towards the enemy. Six of them, moving fast.
‘Catch those, you bastards,’ he said.
Blackthorne saw the trio tracking the skull-sized orbs of mana fire. They made no attempt to run and he got the impression they were merely curious about what was coming at them. They didn’t break stride, they didn’t flinch. The orbs struck them square on. Armour flared. Yellow light swept across the valley floor. An alien screech echoed out.
And when the light faded, Blackthorne could see the invaders lying motionless, burning brightly. Behind them, the machine and the animals that pulled it had stopped. Blackthorne jumped to his feet and punched the air.
‘Die screaming, you fuckers!’ he shouted, and cheers rose from the watching riders and mages.
At his feet, Gresse coughed. Blackthorne knelt to tend to him and found the older baron smiling.
‘You still can’t shake it off, can you?’ Gresse said, voice sounding strong and sure.
‘What, old friend?’
‘That gutter language Hirad Coldheart taught you when he was living in the Balan Mountains all those years back.’
Blackthorne chuckled. ‘He had a unique way with words, it’s true. Effective if a little lacking in sophistication at times. Right. Think I’d better arrange a stretcher for you. That leg looks bad.’
‘You should try knowing how it feels,’ said Gresse.
‘Lie still.’
‘I hadn’t thought to leap nimbly to my feet.’
Blackthorne stood and waved a rider to him. ‘I need four men and I need a stretcher rigged up. There’ll be plenty of material back at the lodge. Be quick. And send a mage. Baron Gresse needs his pain removed.’
‘I do not need a mage, thank you very much.’
‘Yes, you do, Gresse. Trust me on this. Go.’
‘Yes, Baron.’
The rider turned and put his heels to his horse. The animal galloped away. Blackthorne sat on the dusty ground next to Gresse and looked down over the valley. The corpses of the invaders still burned. Behind them, the machine was quiet and the beasts were still, staring straight ahead. Some of his mages were making a slow and wary approach. One glanced in his direction and he nodded his permission for them to continue.
‘I wonder who they were,’ said Blackthorne.
‘Garonin. Or I think that’s what one of them said.’
‘Well it’s a name, but I was thinking a little more widely than that.’
Gresse drew in a pained breath.
‘There’ll be a mage here soon,’ said Blackthorne.
‘I’ll try to contain my excitement,’ said Gresse. ‘So what do you think? From another dimension?’
‘Probably. Good to see them folding under spell attack, though. It means we can fight them.’
‘And win.’
‘Easily.’
A smell of burned mana drifted across them. A moment later the valley was crowded with Garonin. Blackthorne shot to his feet, gaping. Fifty and more of them where a heartbeat before there had been none. Materialising as if dispelling a massed Beyen’s Cloak spell. And these had not come merely to walk in front of the machine. As the beasts’ roars split the air and they began to walk, Blackthorne could see what he assumed were weapons in the hands of most of the new invaders. They advanced.
