Dystran raised his eyebrows. 'Only a fool would truly believe that. And only a fool would see what is happening here and now as a serious threat.'
'Then I am a fool,' said Denser. 'I have dead souls reanimating fresh corpses all over the city, perhaps all over Balaia. I cannot talk to the elves even if I wanted to. I have massive mana dropouts to the east and getting closer, and I have reports that whatever it is that forced the dead out of their dimension is heading for the gates of Xetesk. How is this not a serious threat?'
Vuldaroq shook his head and exhaled loudly. Denser looked away and closed his eyes briefly.
'Something wrong, Denser?' asked the erstwhile Dordovan Tower Lord.
'Nothing that not being patronised won't fix.'
'Don't be so touchy. Instead, consider an alternative viewpoint.' Denser motioned for Vuldaroq to continue. 'Thank you. If there is one thing we learned from the demon invasion it was that the dead are far from the helpless onlookers we assumed. Not only do the Wesmen have direct access to their elders, the elves have a basic communication mode and was it not Ilkar who guided you to your destination all those years ago despite being dead?'
Denser shrugged. 'Yes. So what?'
'Open your eyes,' snapped Dystran, slapping the arm of his chair and dislodging the bell which fell into his lap. He was interrupted by a brief fit of coughing.
'You really believe they are here because something ripped open their own dimension? Something that powerful would not just be here by now, it would have destroyed us already. Think, my Lord of the Mount. This is not threat, it is opportunity. Find out what they really want. Find out why the mana spectrum is unstable. Xetesk thrives on harnessing fear, we always have.'
'You're saying I should dismiss the statements of my dead friends as lies?'
'We're saying treat anything a dead soul says with a little healthy scepticism. Every time one speaks, repeat to yourself, "Would I want to regain life if I were to die?" '
'Well of course I would. No one wants to die.'
'Exactly,' said Vuldaroq. 'And expect them therefore to come up with a solution to the problem they have so conveniently appeared to warn you about.'
'They already have,' said Denser and a frown crept on to his face. 'Are you saying . . . ?'
'Ha! I rest my case,' said Dystran, folding back into his chair, an expression of smug satisfaction on his pasty, thin face.
'Wait, wait, young Dystran,' said Vuldaroq, leaning further forward. 'What form does this solution take?'
Denser shrugged. 'Well, to be fair, this is where I have begun to lose it. They are convinced the enemy they say we face is too powerful and that we need to leave.'
Dystran gaped. Vuldaroq's smile was half knowing.
'Leave? And go where?' he asked 'Anywhere that isn't Balaia, apparently.'
'By which I suppose they mean south to Calaius, do they?'
'Oh no, that would be too easy. They want us to leave the dimension entirely.' Denser paused, sudden anxiety rippling through his mind. 'Look, I can see where this is going.'
'I should bloody well hope so,' said Vuldaroq. 'Bored dead people reappear in Balaia and announce the living should leave. I have no doubt you have been told their own dimension is damaged beyond repair or something like that.'
'Something like that,' said Denser. 'But hang on a moment. These people are my friends, my wife. I trust them. I love them. And they want to leave too. With us, I think.'
'So they say. And look who has come back so far,' said Dystran. 'That we know of. No simpletons. Of those who have announced themselves at our gates, or to you personally, every single one was a player before they died. The Raven. Styliann, my own predecessor, though his appearance was confusingly brief. Dear Gods burning and sorry you don't know this, but there is a man sitting in the Mana Bowl right now who claims to be Septern.'
'I did know that, and he is a fraud,' said Denser. 'He must be.'
'You are so certain?' said Dystran.
'I just don't see what point you're making. It isn't just powerful people. Ordinary Xeteskians are back too.'
'But they are not shouting, are they? And that's because they are merely pawns in this game. People of influence have returned. Drawn by something they clearly need. That, given what you have told us, appears to be a new home. Our home. And without us in it.' Dystran leaned right forward and his voice was a husky whisper. 'We don't know what being dead does to people, Denser. Even those we love. Don't trust any of them.'
'I may not agree with them, but I will never deem them liars. You are talking about the most loyal people ever to have walked Balaian soil,' said Denser. He pushed himself from his chair, unable to sit. He could feel his cheeks reddening. 'You are talking about the woman I love and over whom I still weep ten years on. You who sit here in your cave, too frightened to face the world a decade after we, The Raven, freed it from the shackles of the demons. You are not fit to empty their piss from a bucket.'
'And you will do your duty by your college!' Dystran's voice still held a surprising amount of power when he needed it. 'The Raven is gone. You are Lord of the Mount. Start thinking like him.'
A servant came in bearing a tray of tea and coffee and no doubt heard enough of the conversation to keep him in free ale for ten days.
Denser had to restrain himself from spitting on the tray on his way out.
'I only drink with friends.'
Chapter 11.
Blackthorne had been chased by murderous enemies before but there was a bizarre quality to this one that was in danger of causing fatal complacency.
In the days since the Garonin had responded to Gresse's attack with such appalling violence, the survivors had moved ahead of them. But such was the slow pace of the enemy advance that Blackthorne and the partially recovered Gresse had been able to undertake considerable planning. And because the Garonin stopped at dusk, standing stock still as if frozen in time, and restarted at dawn, they could camp, rest, forage and track at leisure.
It was early morning on a misty but warming day. The thud of the Garonin machines was distant and they had become accustomed to it winding up with the morning songbirds. Blackthorne walked his horse alongside the open wagon in which Gresse sat a little reluctantly. Mages had healed the bone breaks but his distrust of magic was such that he refused the administration of Mother's Warmth to complete the healing process.
'It leaves me vulnerable. Out of control,' he grumbled.
'It leaves you asleep in your wagon for a day and fit to ride the next. Stubborn old goat.'
'The body recuperates at a given pace for a reason. No one has ever looked into the lasting effects of hurrying healing along with spells.'
'I'm not going to argue with you, Gresse,' said Blackthorne, rubbing at his mouth and beard to hide the smile. 'But you're grumpy because you cannot ride, yet you will not take the cure. It's up to you. Meanwhile, I thought you might not like to hear what our scouts are telling us.'
Gresse looked up at him and grimaced. 'That bad, is it?'
'We've riders on the ground and we all have ears. We've counted five of these machines. All of them travelling in straight lines, all of them driving people in front of them, leaving devastation in their wake. The devastation continues to expand as you feared, eating up the ground, killing everything. There's no escape. And all of their destinations are depressingly clear.'
'Let me guess. Korina, Xetesk, Julatsa, Lystern and Dordover. Key population centres.'
'Almost right,' said Blackthorne. 'But you have made one small error in your assumptions. It isn't populations and people they are after, necessarily. There is no machine headed for Dordover. It's going to Triverne Lake, to the site of the original college of magic.'
'Of course, silly me. No Heart in Dordover and not so many people either these days. You think they're after mana just like I do.'
'They are harvesting something, aren't they? And we've seen what the detonation clouds are run with. And the aftermath is very much like a mana fire. Stands to reason.'
'So it does. And as it happens, I agree with you completely. So presumably you have riders on their way to the target cities?'
'Of course.'
'Mages would be faster.'
'If they make it. Few will take the risk of flying such long distances. Hit a mana dropout and that's your lot. Too risky.'
Gresse was quiet for a moment. Blackthorne watched his old friend weighing up what he'd heard. He looked very old and sick this morning. His eyes had dulled since the run from the vineyards. Blackthorne wondered how long he could count on his wisdom and his enquiring mind.
'Stop looking at me like I'm about to die, Blackthorne. It's very off-putting.'
'Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just . . .'
'Well as a matter of fact I don't feel great but I am not yet on my last legs. Not on any legs right now as it happens. But it has given me time to think. Here's a question for you. Why didn't these machines appear right by what we assume are their targets? They seem to be able to appear anywhere they like so why this slow procession?'
'I don't know.' Blackthorne shook his head. 'I'll put it to the masses. See if anyone has anything bright to say.'
'No need.' There was a gleam in Gresse's eyes. 'I have a theory. Perhaps they need to attain a critical mass before attacking a college where the mana density is so great.'
Blackthorne felt genuine surprise. He took a sidelong look at Gresse before facing forward again.
'I see the cancer hasn't addled your brain just yet, then.'
'Improved it if anything,' said Gresse. 'Well, what do you think?'
'Plausible. Would you care to expand on your thoughts?'
Gresse sat up a little straighter. Blackthorne stepped closer to the wagon and rested a hand on its side.
'It's just observation, really. When we first saw the machine at the vineyards, it was big, yes, but looked, I don't know . . . deflated, if you see what I mean. And when the detonation clouds built up, the whole thing was rattling and wheezing fit to burst. Look at it now. That outer skin seems tighter, and when the clouds build, it all looks depressingly smooth and well-oiled, for want of a better expression. Still noisy as hell, but the noise of health not the rattle of death. The only thing I can liken it to is a horse. It needs breaking-in and running for a long time before it matures and understands what is asked of it. Before it can do everything for which it was born.
'What do you think?'
Blackthorne raised his eyebrows. 'I think I wish I'd been able to tell my riders that. It makes perfect sense to me. I'll talk to my mages and have them observe what they can both inside and outside the mana spectrum. The more we understand these things, the more we can report to Denser and Sol in Xetesk.'
'Bet you never thought you'd end up on a survey and research team, did you?' said Gresse.
Blackthorne chuckled. 'Not with a grumpy old sod like you, that's for sure. Is there room on that wagon for me? I feel like I deserve a rest. Feeling my age, you know.'
'You should try feeling mine.'
'All in good time, old friend. All in good time.'
Heryst, Lord Elder Mage of Lystern, had seen enemies come and go. Cheating death was a habit, so they said, and he thought it a good habit to adopt. But that was before the lost souls began lining up demanding access to the college, the city and their loved ones. All of them in other people's bodies. But what he had thought to be a distasteful charade had turned out to be the truth and a deep disquiet had settled on him.
Lystern was a poor city now. Perhaps in a dozen generations she would attain her former glory. Now, ruins and relics were all that remained alongside a fierce spirit among the people who had survived imprisonment by the demons and a feeling of close family among the handful who had kept the college from finally falling into demon hands.
Heryst would lament those who had died in that service. And it was their memories he would not see go to waste. The Heart had been saved and the college was beginning to recover. He looked with envy at the ease with which Xetesk appeared to have risen from the mire of the war, but at least he didn't have to fear them. The incumbent Lord of the Mount, a genuine hero of Balaia, was the first of his kind to eschew Xeteskian dominion for Balaian stability.
It gave him great heart for the future, but this morning he feared that future was about to be snuffed out. From the walls of the college he could look out south and east over the stinking city and see what was coming at them. He was told they were not numerous, indeed that a well-placed spell barrage would stop them. But those who told him these things had not spoken to his old mentor Kayvel, or to any of the other returned souls barracked in the college. He knew there were plenty in the city too. He wondered if they were saying the same things to their already nervous loved ones.
'How long before they are at your gates?'
Heryst was deep underneath the Heart of the college, where the mana ran so strongly and so true. He sat with a long-fingered hand on a silk panel linked to the Communion Globe by filaments of gold thread. He currently made up one of the six who kept the line of communication forever open. All six sat in low, comfortable chairs in order to preserve stamina. The panels were built into the left arms of the chairs, which circled the stand in which the Globe sat. The Globe itself was made from gold and steel and covered in fine cream silk. The combination channelled mana particularly well and the silk glowed with the base colour of the college magic. A green light bathed Heryst as the signal strengthened.
'Mid-afternoon at their current speed, my Lord Denser.'
'And you have not even managed to slow them?'
'Slowing them isn't the issue. Their pace is ponderous in the extreme. But they will not turn. They will not negotiate and they will not trade. They do not believe they have to.'
'What will you do? I can spare no one. We are mounting an attack on the enemy coming towards us, but like you the dead in our midst tell us we will fail. I refuse to believe that.'
'As do I,' said Heryst. 'We have precious little in the way of meaningful defence but what we do have will be unleashed the moment they set foot inside the city boundaries. They have been told this will happen. My conscience is clear.'
'Keep the Globe running,' said Denser. 'We can win if we work together. Anything you learn, anything we learn, we must exchange.'
'You have my word on that.'
'Good luck, Lord Heryst. The wishes of the whole of Xetesk are with you.'
'That means more than you know. I must go. The refugees are building up and I need to position my forces. We will speak later in the day.'
'I'm counting on it.'
The Communion Globe changed from vibrant green to a dull grey. Idling, the Communion teams called it. Heryst relaxed and removed his hand from the panel. Two others did the same, leaving three to maintain the casting at a low level. After a moment to gather himself, he stood.
'Whatever you hear and whatever you see in the coming days, we must keep this alive. I do not know if we can stop the enemy. All we know is that in their wake lies devastation and that they are coming right for us. Keep strong, you and the resting teams. Balaia needs you.'
Heryst moved to the heavy door of the chamber and knocked for it to be pulled open. Cool air washed in. The door was made from thick oak timbers and bound with iron. A dormant spell lay on the door, a WardLock ready to be activated by a command word from inside should anyone threaten the Globe. Heryst thought it likely they would need to use it soon enough.
Outside, the energy of the Heart warmed his body. It rested thirty feet above his head. A tall, cylindrical stone, similar to those in all the colleges in a chamber designed to circulate mana at high density. Without it, mages aligned to the college anywhere in the world would be unable to cast spells with any degree of certainty or success.
Heryst nodded to the guards and began to climb the long, gentle, circular stairway up to ground level. There were mirrors set along the outside wall every thirty feet or so, all of them ancient and tarnished, hung as a security measure by a high elder mage of generations past. He caught his reflection in one of them and rather wished he hadn't.
He admitted to being sixty but looked more like ninety. His once-proud head of hair was gone and he wore a skullcap to keep the chill away. His face was wrinkled and puffy, his nose and cheeks perennially red and veined. Heryst knew why but the shakes in the morning were only ever quelled by strong spirits.
The demons had taken so much. Maybe not his soul but the man he had been was lost forever. Sleep was a fleeting pleasure ruined by nightmares and food was taken merely to live. The joy of taste was a bitter memory.
Heryst sighed. His eyes were not still. The pupils performed a tiny, jerking dance and took the edge off his focus. He reached out a hand to the mirror and touched it with the tips of his skeletal fingers.
'I've been fooling you, haven't I? This isn't life; it is just a long decline to the grave,' he whispered. 'Perhaps defeat would be best for us all.'
Chapter 12.