After a moment's hesitation, the woman stood. She moved Ranyl's hand from hers, squeezed it briefly and leant in to murmur a few words before kissing him on the forehead. With head bowed, she hurried past Dystran, who did not miss the tracks of tears on her cheeks reflecting the firelight.
As he sat, Dystran had the overwhelming urge to run. Not to face what he knew he must. The sounds of fighting echoed across the dark city. Everything he knew and treasured was under threat. And here, breathing so quiedy he could hardly be heard, the man he needed most was slipping away from him.
He took Ranyl's hand in his and felt the fingers move weakly in his palm.
'Feeling tired, old dog?' asked Dystran quietly, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. So few days had passed since Ranyl had seemed strong, able to walk, sit up, eat. The suddenness of the change was brutal to see.
In the gloom, Ranyl's eyelids flickered and opened. His eyes, so recendy bright and full of determination, were dull and sunken. His mouth moved, breath a sibilant hiss over which his words were barely audible.
'. . . can't bear to see Xetesk attacked. Keep diem from us.'
'The Wesmen won't make it off die walls,' said Dystran gently. 'Rest easy. Hold on. See us victorious.'
'No, young pup. I'm tired.' He managed a brief smile. T will leave it to younger men. I was ... I was really only waiting until you came to say goodbye.'
Ranyl's voice was fading such that Dystran had to lean closer and closer. His words chilled the Lord of the Mount. He gripped the old man's hand, shaking it.
'No, Master Ranyl,' said Dystran. 'I need you to guide me. There is no one else I can trust.'
'You have been such a friend,' said Ranyl. 'And you are a great leader. You need no one.'
'No, Ranyl. Hold on. This pain will pass. You'll soon feel stronger.' ' .
But the words weren't true, he knew that. He could see it in the pallor of Ranyl's complexion, ghostly in the gloom. And he could smell it in the air.
Ranyl coughed weakly. 'Mourn me, but don't miss me.'
Dystran nodded, accepting. He smiled and placed a hand on Ranyl's cold forehead. 'Everything I have achieved is because of you. I will be in your debt for eternity.'
Ranyl chuckled. 'A fitting epitaph,' he said, his eyes brightening just briefly.
And then he was gone.
Dystran walked to the balcony shutters and opened them, admitting the cool' air of night. He saw fires towards the walls and could hear the sounds of battle and of panic beginning to grip the streets. He even fancied he could taste blood in the air.
Mostly, he felt isolation. Only one man could save Xetesk now. Unfortunately, it was him. For a time he let the tears fall, his mind focusing on the tortured screams of Ranyl's familiar as it faded to death after its master.
The prize was so close Tessaya could almost touch it. Men were bred tough in the Heartlands and he felt proud to fight next to them. The Xeteskians were falling back before him and his heart sang victory.
He had led his warriors in a hard drive right along the battlements. His axe ran red and his arms and chest were cut by his enemies. But now the turret was theirs. In front of him a warrior fell, skull crushed by a mace. Tessaya grabbed his collar as he went down, dragging him back. He strode into the space, axe carving through an upward arc left to right across his body. Its blade caught his enemy under the chin. His helmet flew off, his jaw shattered and his head snapped back, taking his body with it and striking those behind him.
Warriors surged forward, the noise intensifying in the enclosed space.
'Hold the far door,' ordered Tessaya, pushing men at it. 'The rest of you, let's take these stairs.'
Handicapped by the direction of the spiral, the Xeteskians were forced back quickly. Tessaya led his warriors down, taking the inside himself. His axe was in his right hand, sweeping in front of him.
As Tessaya knew it would, the Xeteskian retreat stopped at a landing. Orders were shouted up the stairs. In front of him, the terrified boys, for that was all they were, squared up. Outside, he heard the rare impact of a spell. He snarled and stepped away from the centre of the thread and gripped his axe in both hands. A warrior stood to his right, the pair of them filling the stairwell. Behind and above, the fighting continued on the battlements. He heard his warriors chanting as they drove onwards, their voices echoing down to lift his spirits even as they crushed those of whom he faced.
'You will die, boy, if you lift that blade against me,' said Tessaya into the impasse. He pitched his voice to carry further than the whelp he addressed; a quivering youth whose helm sat too large on his dirt-streaked face. 'But at least you will know more courage in death than those who command you. Where do they stand, eh?'
'Who . . . ?' The Xeteskian didn't know whether to ask or not, caught between fear and awe.
T am Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon tribes and ruler of the Wes-men,' he replied. 'And what a prize should you beat me. The time has come. Lay down your blade and be spared. Or die dreaming of being a hero.'
Tessaya didn't think the boy even had the courage to lift his sword in attack and in that at least he was mistaken. But in everything else, he was not. Deflecting the ill-learned strike and chopping downwards through the poorly armoured shoulder, he muttered a prayer that the boy be respected by the Spirits.
He stepped across the body, a chant erupting from his lips and taken up by the men around him. Invoking the Spirits of strength, of true aim and keen edge, it was a guttural sound, its rhythm in time with the strokes of his axe.
Tessaya paced forward, chopping up through the defence of one Xeteskian, sweeping left to eviscerate a second and back right and down to hack into the arm of a third. The warrior next to him, voice booming in song, moved in closer, forcing his enemy's guard down and butting him on the bridge of the nose. The Xeteskian sprawled backwards, flailing his arms, more of a danger to his comrades than the Wesmen.
Tessaya saw the fear in their eyes and the tremble of their limbs. Blood slicked the walls, the floor was covered in gore and the bodies of fallen Xeteskians and the air stank and steamed. The Lord of the Wesmen licked his lips and drove on, breaking them further with every step.
Chapter 3
None of Chandyr's experience had prepared him for this. He had fought Wesmen before but of course there had been the backing of mages able to break lines and obliterate enemies at will. And in combat with enemy colleges, the balance of spell power gave the warfare a symmetry that he could understand.
But here tonight, hand-to-hand and face-to-face, he was seeing ferocity that was simply awesome. The Wesmen were indefatigable. They were skilful. And they were cutting through his men like paper.
On his horse outside the lost turret, he saw men spill outwards, regroup and push in again. He heard the turret captain yelling for order and getting precious litde. The faces of those few around him were lined with fear. Either side, high up on the battlements, the Wesmen taunted his toothless forces. He had so few mages and the spells cast recently had been wasted. Now tfie chastened casters awaited his order in an arc around the turret. They wouldn't be kept long.
Chandyr had thought about riding back to the college again. But the mood was fragile and he couldn't afford to be seen leaving the batdefront. Instead he dismounted and turned the reins of his horse over to the nearest messenger.
Before he spoke, he took in the fires burning on the walls and those buildings onto which the Wesmen had managed to cast torches. He saw more and more join those already behind their makeshift wooden barricade on the batdements. And he didn't have to imagine the number who waited outside for the gate to be taken.
In the streets around him, the confidence of many city folk had given way to panic. People thronged the main roads, heading for the north gate and the college, no doubt to demand escape or
sanctuary. Dystran would not give them the latter. But by the Gods burning, he could buy them time to achieve the former.
His messenger waited expectantly, wincing as roars of triumph sounded from the Wesmen advancing towards the south gate tower along the battlements.
'Ride back to the college,' said Chandyr, handing the messenger his badge of command. 'Use my authority and speak only to Dystran himself. Tell him this:
'If he is to cast his spells it must be now. We are losing the battle for control of the south gate. He must give us more mage support or they'll be at the college before dawn. Got all that?'
'Yes, sir.'
Chandyr grabbed the messenger's arm. 'One more tiling. Tell him he does not need to cast his dimensional spells. We can hold on without them, at least. Go.'
Chandyr watched him mount up and ride away before turning to add his strength to die fight for Xetesk.
Spring nights could be chill and the hours before dawn were the coldest. But Sharyr hadn't known how lonely they could be until now, particularly not in the company of so many friends and enemies.
Of course it wasn't just this that set him alone. It was the awesome expectation placed upon him to succeed and the enormity of the risk he was being forced to take to achieve that success.