T ask you this as an adversary for whom I have developed a certain respect,' said Ferouc.
His hands clicked together and his skin flowed from a deep green to a livid blue, his emotions clashing while he spoke. Blackthorne stood alone before him on the steps of his castle keep, far enough
away that he could turn and escape should Ferouc attack. But he didn't think the demon would. Not that he trusted his enemy. Ferouc simply didn't have to risk himself or any measure of humiliation. Ranged behind him were hundreds of the demon strain he called karron, destructors. Hovering above them a similar number of reavers. The strike-strain were gone. Not needed now.
'Respect is a long time earned, Ferouc,' he replied, choosing not to irritate the occupying commander with his nickname. 'But understanding of the spirit of humans would take you a lifetime. We have been so long resisting you that the thought of surrender can never now enter our minds. And even more so knowing what that surrender would mean. This is not mere captivity and subjugation, after all.'
'But you are beaten,' said Ferouc.
'Not so, my enemy,' said Blackthorne, enjoying the reaction his words provoked. 'We accept that we cannot beat you. Your numbers are vasdy superior. But we are not beaten. One does not necessarily follow the other.'
'The instruction has changed,' said Ferouc. T am to bring about the end of your resistance and if that means taking your lives but not your souls, so be it. You may be relatively few but you are dangerous and I am required to the north to aid in our final victory.'
'And hence these . . .' Blackthorne indicated behind Ferouc. 'Karron.'
'They are a race not suited to any but the most mana-dense atmosphere,' said Ferouc, and there was a note of disdain in his voice. 'It is a measure of our inevitable victory that we are now able to use them in Balaia.'
'We will kill them as we will kill any who come against us.'
Ferouc's colour distilled into a bright blue, his anger surfacing strongly. 'I had wanted to taste your soul, Baron Blackthorne, but now I would laugh over your soulless corpse. The karron will tear down your walls and expose you to us. And while they might fear your ColdRooms, we no longer do. Ask your people. Life even if it is brief under the rule of the demons is preferable to ignominious death beneath the rubble of your own castle.'
Blackthorne laughed. 'Oh Fidget, you will never understand. No, it is not. Do you not see that every moment we resist you, our
friends in Xetesk close in on the way to beat you and The Raven get ever closer to your beating heart? Before you came we were a divided nation. It took you to bring us together, to give us the will to fight again as one. And for that, we will always be grateful.
'One day, you will be beaten. You do not believe it I know but that is where your weakness lies. Come, attack us if you will. Taste death in your hundreds and frustration over the days we resist you.'
Blackthorne turned and strode back into his castle, knowing he had to deliver the speech of his life to stop his people being overwhelmed before nightfall.
Hirad thrashed his mace through waist-high. It tore across the karron's hammer limb and into its midriff, ripping flesh away. The knife now in his left hand jabbed into its face. Across the line, the karron were slowing dramatically. They hadn't forced the breakthrough they wanted. The Raven had held firm and the Al-Arynaar had responded with typical courage to the change of pace of the karron attack. But the attack wasn't fading fast enough and Hirad burned with the frustration.
'Someone get to Rebraal. Now!' He battered his mace into a karron skull. 'Get the fuck back.' Every muscle burned. He felt the sweat pouring from his body. 'Erienne, see to him.'
He had glanced around as the Al-Arynaar's leader had taken the blow from the karron, saving Erienne as he did so. He had landed unmoving. The Unknown had led The Raven on the counter, defending until the whirling limbs began to slow. After that it had turned into carnage. Al-Arynaar forged into the karron lines, driving them back towards the holes in the playhouse walls. Reavers shrieked and strike-strain dived but ForceCones kept them away. FlameOrbs crashed again and again into the back of the demon horde already distracted by what was coming up behind them.
'Pushing,' shouted The Unknown. 'Don't lose your focus, Cold-heart. Put these bastards down.'
Hirad let the rage settle on him like Auum had taught him, using it to give him clarity. He kicked the legs from a karron and broke its neck with his mace when it fell in front of him. He straightened and jabbed out with his knife, feeling it connect with flesh. The karron reared. Hirad butted it in the face and struck it under the chin with
his mace. From his right, a laboured spike limb strike curved his way. Thraun had switched to his long sword and took the spike off at the wrist.
Outside, the sounds of approaching running feet and chanting were filling the air. Panicked calls went up from the demons around the playhouse. Hirad watched reavers darting into the air. He saw karron falter and stop at the back of the line.
'Let's break them,' he growled. 'Raven with me.'
He moved and knew he wouldn't stop until they were running or he was dead. His mace crashed again and again into bodies rendered weak through exhaustion and Erienne's casting. His knife licked out, inflicting pain and frustrating riposte. Next to him, The Unknown wielded sword and mace in tandem as did Ark nearby. The karron had no answer. Their ploy had failed. Their enemies too skilled. And with the new threat almost on them, they were called off, broke and ran.
'Holding!' called The Unknown. 'No one move after them.'
Hirad saw the first of the relief pouring into the square. Banners flew, axes and swords glinted in the sunlight and the songs echoed from the louring buildings.
'Gods falling, Wesmen,' said Hirad. 'Now there's something I never thought to see.'
'Let's hope they're offering help,' said Thraun.
'Oh they are,' said Suarav. The college captain had fought quietly and effectively next to Thraun. He was cut and bleeding but still very much alive. 'We'll make the college now.'
Hirad remembered and his relief turned to fear. He spun on his heel and ran to where Rebraal lay near the stage. Erienne and Denser knelt by him. Denser was casting. Hirad could see Erienne's hands shaking. He prayed it was with exhaustion and not grief. He joined them, crouching at Rebraal's feet.
'Oh dear Gods, no,' he said. 'Not you too.'
A trail of blood ran from beneath his head. His face was pale. His mace lay twisted by his side, his left arm underneath his body and his leather torn, buckles broken. At least he was breathing.
Denser finished his casting. 'This is one luck)' elf. He's got a cut on his scalp and no doubt a concussion from the impact. But his mace took the force of the blow, deflected it along his leather here.
It only glanced him or it would have burst his stomach, surely. But when he wakes he's going to be in a lot of pain.'
'Dammit, Rebraal, what did I say to you?' whispered Hirad. 'Why did you have to stay in the fight?'
'Because he's Raven at heart,' said Erienne. 'Because that's what he knew you'd do in his place. What any of us would do. He saved me, Hirad. Think how close we came to losing everything.'
Hirad reached out and smoothed his hair. 'Well done, Ilkar's little brother. Well done.' He looked up to the sky. 'We won this one, General,' he said.
All around him the Wesmen songs filled the air. From the corners of his eyes, he saw warriors pouring into the playhouse and through the gaps he saw them surrounding the building. He heard voices shouting orders and the calls of demons, more distant now.
He became aware of a presence in front of them, standing a respectful distance away. He raised his head. In front of him stood a man with a middle-aged face but whose furs and leather covered what was plainly a powerful body. That face was criss-crossed with scars and fresh cuts. His greying light hair was braided and long, his eyes fierce. He exuded an aura of authority and power. Yet he waited for them to acknowledge him. The huge axe gripped casually in his hand dripped demon gore. Hirad had never set eyes on him before but there was no doubting who he was.
'Lord Tessaya,' he said.
Tessaya inclined his head. 'The Raven. It has been a meeting long in the making.' He frowned and looked hard at Hirad. 'We have all lost brothers. Your loss pierces you. It is written on you as plain as script. Which of you has fallen?'
'A great man,' said Hirad. 'General Darrick.'
'Ahh.' There was genuine regret in Tessaya's voice. 'He, I respected above most men though his actions caused the Wesmen such pain. I wish we could have spoken together. I am saddened by his passing. The Spirits will keep him.'
'His body is still on the street. We can't leave it there,' said Hirad, turning to The Raven. 'We need it. We have a ritual to perform.'
'No,' said Tessaya. 'You cannot.'
'You don't understand,' said Hirad, keeping himself firmly in check. 'He's Raven. We owe him respect.'
Tessaya placed a gentle hand on Hirad's shoulder. 'No,' he repeated. 'It does not matter where he fell, you cannot get to him. The demons are gone but merely to regroup. They will be back and we must make the college grounds before they do. If you stray they will take you.'
'Unknown?' Hirad looked to die big man. 'He's only on The Thread. Just a litde way north.' The Unknown bit his lip and shook his head.