turn and the pace of his body. The first slashed deep into the helmet of his target, the second, adjusted lower, whipped through his throat, ripping free and carrying blood and gore with it.
Auum landed facing right. The remaining three were moving towards him. They could not see Miirt sprinting up behind them and the fire from their fellows nearer the vydosphere was tracking Ghaal.
He heard the howl of a jaqrui. The blade flickered past his left shoulder and embedded in the arm of the leftmost enemy. The soldier jerked back, but steadied and fired. Auum glanced back to see Ghaal duck and roll under the stream of white tears.
Auum rose and ran. He came under fire from the other two. He dived left, rolling and rising, the roof at his feet obliterated. He dropped a blade, reached for a jaqrui and threw. The Garonin ducked it, his head moving to track it just for a moment. More than enough. Auum picked up his blade, ran four paces and launched himself two- footed at the Garonin’s midriff. He caught the soldier square on. The enemy doubled over, and as he fell, Auum’s blades jabbed up under both his arms.
Auum shovelled the body aside and came to a crouch. Miirt had leapt up and backhanded her blade through the back of a Garonin neck. Ghaal had jumped and struck the other in the eye slit. Blood was running down the side of the roof, staining the red tiles a dark shade of crimson.
‘Yniss saves us for greater deeds,’ said Auum.
He turned to the vydosphere. More Garonin were advancing. Fifty-plus breaking from the main force. Above them, the sky darkened by degrees and the pace of the cloud spin increased.
‘Breathe the air, my warriors. And let us run like the jaguars are on our scent.’
The Tai cell touched hands briefly, stowed weapons and ran south, exhorting Tual to guard their every move. Behind them not every Garonin turned to follow. Auum watched eight carrying on forward.
‘The Ravensoul worries them,’ he muttered. ‘I hope it is strong enough to turn them aside.’
Baron Gresse settled into his chair on the rooftop garden of one of Xetesk’s premier mages, it didn’t matter which, to watch his last, glorious Balaian dawn. The house was well stocked and he had one of his servants find him some fresh leaf tea, a plate of bread and cold meat and some fresh fruit. The table was laid properly, with white cloth, napkins and crystal glasses. Wine would follow the tea. A little early perhaps, but when one was short of time, early was not in the lexicon.
Blackthorne reappeared from the house.
‘It’s mine,’ he said. ‘One of my finest vintages too. A pity to let it go to waste.’
Gresse had dismissed his servant but his and Blackthorne’s retinues were still loitering at the far end of the garden, unwilling to desert their lords.
‘Then join me, old friend. And take a look at this spectacular, if unfortunately unique, sunrise.’
‘There’s still time to get away from here,’ said Blackthorne. ‘We can enjoy this under a new sun.’
Gresse indicated over his left shoulder. Eight Garonin soldiers were making their languid way across the rooftops.
‘No, there isn’t, Blackthorne. And I’m tired of running. Tired of being hauled about like some chattel. I am a baron of Balaia. And that is how I will die. Better than straining to reach some foreign shore and having the cancer claim me anyway.
‘What are we running for, you and me? Are you really going to build another Blackthorne Castle? Do you have the energy? All those you protected have been swept away by these bastards. Just like my people. I’m going down with this ship and I’m looking forward to it.’
Blackthorne looked away towards the Garonin heading directly towards them and then to those making their steady way towards the college.
‘Go!’ he shouted to the servants still waiting at the end of the garden. ‘We’ll be along presently.’
Not one of their men moved. Instead, a show of hands resulted in them returning to the barons and forming a ring around them at a deferential distance. Blackthorne nodded his respect and thanks, pulled out a chair and sat down.
‘You know, you are absolutely right.’
‘It’s a common complaint.’
‘Can I pour you some more tea?’
‘I think wine more appropriate now.’
‘Good man.’
Blackthorne produced a corkscrew from his pocket and set to work. He drew the cork expertly and sniffed the end, nodding approvingly. He handed the cork to Gresse while he poured each of them a mouthful to taste. The two barons sniffed, sipped, rolled and swallowed.
‘A red to satisfy the desire for a full body, a head of blackcurrant and an aftertaste of dark plum,’ said Gresse. ‘Outstanding. We should have ordered the steak.’
A servant stepped in, took the bottle from Blackthorne and poured each of them a full glass with a remarkably steady hand. The sounds of the enemy approaching were growing louder.
‘A little late for steak. Even for something blue.’
Gresse shifted his legs on their footstool. ‘Do you remember that time when we brokered that agreement with the Wesmen for a supply of each vintage?’
‘Interesting negotiations. I’m not sure they were ready for the concept of laying down a wine for a decade.’
‘Who was that idiot who insisted on broaching a bottle of the thirty-eight vintage?’
Blackthorne chuckled. A detonation sounded away to the east. He paused while the echoes faded. ‘Riasu. Almost choked on it. Nothing so sharp and unpleasant as a young wine.’
‘As I recall, he was keen to have us both divided in two,’ said Gresse. ‘Remember what you said about trusting the vintage?’
Blackthorne laughed out loud this time. He held up a finger and wagged it as he spoke. ‘ “Patience is the province of the civilised man. A fine wine is the fruit of that patience just as it is proof of the wisdom of its owner. However, if you are not completely satisfied when you come to open the first bottle in ten years’ time, I promise to provide you with a full refund. Just bring the shipment back to the castle and I’ll authorise payment on the instant.” I recall it as if it was yesterday.’
‘Lucky that envoy of Tessaya was listening in, I’d say.’
‘They were good days, Gresse.’
‘Damn it but they were, Blackthorne.’
The two barons clinked their glasses and drank deeply.
The footsteps drew ever closer. Gresse ignored the thudding steps, the drone of the machine and the calls of wolves. When you put your mind to it, it was quite easy.
‘We have company,’ said Blackthorne. ‘I’m proud to have called you my friend, Baron Gresse.’
‘And you likewise, Baron Blackthorne. Good hunting in the forests of your fathers.’
‘I’ll send you an invitation should I ever find them.’
Gresse turned to see the eight huge figures looming over them and the men who had refused to leave their sides.
‘Join us, the red is a quite superb vintage. Oh. I see.’
‘One cannot simply turn it off,’ snapped Septern. ‘Not without taking down the whole eastern side of the city.’
‘Do you see anyone who cares if that happens?’ Densyr pointed out towards the Garonin machine and the malevolent shapes of soldiers bounding over his rooftops. ‘It is only enemies out there. Take down every wall if you like. I don’t care. But do it quickly. Meanwhile, our enemies are sucking the life out of the Heart of Xetesk. It is an unsustainable loss. They are killing us from a distance. ’
‘And your friends? The Raven?’
Densyr bit his lip.
‘Casualties of war,’ he said, the words ash in his mouth.
‘Yet they represent the best alternative should we fail to hold the city.’
‘We will not fail,’ said Densyr. ‘We cannot.’
Septern held his gaze for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
