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.'
T 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.'
T 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 Cold-Room structure at that pace. And Pheone was inside it. A cloud of strike- strain swooped overhead and plunged onto the roof, claws jabbing into die 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.
Closing on the wagon, Rebraal saw an Al-Arynaar blade sweep into the neck of a winged soul stealer. The creature's grip on the roof strut was lost and it tumbled to the earth, bouncing and rolling. Rebraal hurdled its bright blue dying body. He increased his speed and leapt at the wagon's tail board. Pain lanced into his back from his injured leg as he landed. He grabbed hold of the rocking carriage and drove his blade into the back of a cursyrd, hurling it backwards and out of the entrance to the wagon.
Inside the light-shot gloom, the fight raged. Strike-strain and reavers battled with Al-Arynaar and desperate human mages. At least one lay dead among the cursyrd bodies and blood gleamed wet on tattered canvas. Pheone was still standing, covered by Al-Arynaar.
'We have them,' came a voice. 'Go forward.'
Rebraal nodded and hauled himself up onto the roof. Three warriors fought there, beating back the reavers storming in from all sides and above. Rebraal couldn't stop to help them. Running from strut to strut, he struck out at any that came into his path with blade, foot and fist. He felt bone crack and wing tear. Colours flashed in front of his face; dark gore and elven blood mixed underfoot, dripping onto the combatants below.
Carving his blade through the spine of a tall, thin cursyrd, he made the front of the wagon and looked down to the bench and kicking plate below.
'Yniss protect us.'
A dead Al-Arynaar sprawled half-off the right seat. The driver was still alive, his screams muffled by the strike-strain covering his head. A reaver was poised above him and Rebraal was going to be too late to save him. In front, Al-Arynaar warriors tried desperately to control the panicked horses under constant bombardment from around them.
The reaver plunged its hands up to the wrists into the driver's exposed back, delivering appalling pain in the moment before its theft.
'No!' shouted Rebraal.
He thudded down beside the startled cursyrd and snatched a strike-strain from the air, jamming it onto the point of his sword. The reaver's eyes met his, hands still buried in its victim's shattered rib cage. Its colour, a smug deep brown, swam to a bright purple. It knew what was coming and that it could do nothing about it.
Rebraal closed his posture, spun on his uninjured left leg, unwound and took the cursyrd's head from its shoulders, seeing the dead strike-strain fly from the point of his sword moments before impact.
'Shorth bring you eternal pain.'
Rebraal had to act fast. The wagon was heading out of the ColdRoom protection, such as it was. Uttering a quick prayer, he shovelled human and cursyrd bodies from the kicking plate, first taking the reins from the dead elf s hands. He straightened, knocked a strike-strain aside and breathed hard. He had never driven horses before.
Behind him, demons surged onto the wagon and his warriors fought for all their lives. Ahead, elves ran hard, keeping up with the horses, distracted by cursyrd buzzing around their heads and harried by reavers. One slip would be fatal.
'What do I do?' he shouted.
'Slow them!' came the reply. 'Turn them left.'
'And we are all Tual's children,' he breathed. 'That much is obvious.'
He had seen the humans drive. The sure hand, the confident voice of order. He did what he felt Brynn would do. He pulled hard on the reins.
Far too hard.
The horses half-reared in their traces and bolted afresh, the sweat flying from their flanks under the chafing leather. On the roof behind him, elves rebalanced but cursyrd suffered. Wings beat, claws scrabbled. Blood was spilled quickly.
In Rebraal's hands, the horses were an unstoppable force, driving headlong towards certain doom. As they
