'Don't disturb him,' said Rebraal. 'It would be dangerous for both of them.'
'A contact. Who with, that damned dragon?'
The Unknown looked up into Dystran's face and saw the arrogance still there.
'No, Dystran,' he replied, his voice deliberately cold. 'Ilkar. In another dimension you've placed at risk.'
'But he's dead, surely?'
'Yes,' replied Rebraal.
'Yes but—'
'Just accept it,' snapped Erienne. 'Leave us alone.'
The Unknown became aware of a growing noise from outside. Below them, in the complex, men were shouting.
'You have to run,' shouted Hirad.
They all jumped.
'Gods,' said Denser. 'You think he means us?'
'No,' said Rebraal. 'He's not aware of us at all.' The Al-Arynaar leader looked strained.
'Please. Make yourself safe. We are coming,' said Hirad.
T take it this is unusual?' said Denser.
'Impossible,' said Rebraal. 'He should not be understanding Ilkar so clearly.'
A colossal roar split the air. Wesmen voices raised in song and call. Xeteskians in the dome were running. They heard the doors cycle closed, the boom reverberating through the tower.
'Ark, go and find out what's happening,' ordered The Unknown. 'Come on, Hirad, I think it's time you were back with us.'
The former Protector moved away and out of sight. Auum and Evunn went after him. The Unknown could see Thraun sniffing the air. He watched the shapechanger's face. His forehead pinched and his jaw tensed. Their eyes met.
'The hunt has begun,' said Thraun.
'What?' said The Unknown.
From below, Ark was shouting for them. Dystran was on the move, closely followed by Vuldaroq and their guards. The Raven held station, willing Hirad to regain consciousness.
He obliged, his eyes snapping open. He gripped The Unknown's arms and pulled him close. The barbarian's eyes were bloodshot and desperate.
'We have to go now,' he said. 'They are inside.'
Arnoan gasped. He wrenched himself from his prayers and fell flat on his back. His chest heaved and his pulse raced. His head throbbed and pounded. Shards of pain speared his forehead and temples. The clouds of incense further fogged his damaged vision.
He lay where he was until he was sure he wasn't about to join those he had so recently contacted. Slowly, his heart calmed, the
incense suffusing his blood and forcing him to relax. Residual pain like a pulled muscle remained. His breathing eased, his vision began to clear and he unclenched his fists. It seemed there was little he could do about the thrashing in his head or the sweat running from every pore.
The old Shaman hauled himself to a sitting position against the wall facing the door to his shrine. Anxious faces looked in. He waved them away feebly.
'I'm all right,' he said. 'All right. Some time, please. Some privacy.'
The faces withdrew. Arnoan placed shivering hands on quivering legs. He closed his eyes, fighting for control. He tried to recall the Communion. It had in so many ways been like any other. The gateway had opened in his mind. The physical expression of it in the hardening of incense smoke. He had stepped to the open portal through which his body could not pass and he had knelt. He had travelled with his mind and almost lost it.
First, the touch of something fresh. Bright and new and almost apologetic. He had ignored it though, seeking the Spirits of the ancients. The force of their emotion would have overwhelmed a lesser Shaman. Left them lost in themselves. But it had spoken loud and unequivocally; a coalescence of all the tendrils of anxiety he had been feeling for so long.
Terror. Helplessness. Desperation. Pleading. The expiration of time and opportunity.
Arnoan opened his eyes and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered and clung to the wall, waves of nausea sweeping over him. Outside, the sounds of battle were taken up once more but the noise was intense and alien. The old Shaman, his heart rattling painfully in his chest, waited for the sickness to pass. He pushed himself away from the wall and bustled towards the barracks door.
'Where is Tessaya?'
The warrior at the door turned frightened eyes to him. 'Out there,' he said. 'Leading the tribes.'
'Shadow me,' ordered Arnoan. T must speak with him'
The warrior drew in a deep breath. 'Yes, my Shaman.'
Arnoan gestured him aside and strode out into the freezing late afternoon. The demons were attacking on multiple fronts and from
above. It was to be expected. Tribal banners flew proud, the songs of the Wesmen reached beyond the ColdRoom shell and the warriors fought bravely.
It was several paces before Arnoan's confident stride into the courtyard faltered. There were the bodies of demons on the ground but too many Wesmen lay with them. He saw Al-Arynaar elves running from the dome complex, splitting into two large groups and running towards gates and long rooms, the latter where elven casters were protected.
The atmosphere was wrong. The songs weren't those of victory but those of struggle and grit. The songs that kept scared warriors together and fighting against the odds. Ahead of him, he could see the Paleon banner flying high. Tessaya was underneath it, fighting against reavers and strike-strain. Immediately in front of the Wesmen lord, the walls of Xetesk crumbled and burst in, scattering rubble into the courtyard. The walkway above collapsed along a forty-yard length. And through the gap came the karron. Transformed.
'Spirits preserve us all,' said Arnoan.
Chapter 40
The Raven followed the Al-Arynaar out of the dome complex while the Xeteskians were still organising themselves. The elven warriors and mages split, heading for the ColdRoom casters. The Unknown brought The Raven to a halt on the steps to take stock.
The courtyard was in upheaval but the reason for the roar they'd heard beginning from inside Dystran's tower was high in the sky above the college. From the slit in the deep blue sky, white clouds billowed and jetted into Balaian space. It was mana, pouring in at a hugely increased rate. The temperature, already low, was dipping fast towards freezing and there was no doubting that the colouring of the cloud was ice crystals. Those crystals were warming just enough as they fell to drop as chill rain onto the combatants below.
Down on the ground, the Wesmen and Al-Arynaar were under a blistering attack. Reavers had stormed the ColdRoom shell with strike-strain clouds backing them. Karron were battering on the walls in a number of places and fighting to try and gain access through the sundered gates. So far, the two thousand Wesmen warriors were holding comfortably enough but they were suffering casualties. Hirad, still feeling bleary after his frightening contact with Ilkar, couldn't work out why but felt the scene didn't quite ring true.