As agreed, Ilkar took the lead with Denser right behind him, one finger hooked in his belt. The CloakedWalks wreathed their bodies in invisibility but did not muffle their sound and Ilkar kept to bare earth, being careful to skirt the waist-high plains grass that edged the cliffs and grew in patches across the ground and away up the slope where they had first taken in the camp.
'Don't stop when we hit the ladder,' said Denser.
'I won't,' said Ilkar a little sharply. 'I am aware of the limitations of the spell. And keep your voice down.'
'My pleasure,' hissed Denser.
'What the hell has happened to you, Denser?' whispered Ilkar, all his ire gone.
'You wouldn't understand,' replied the Dark Mage, his voice quiet and vulnerable.
'Try me.'
'Later. Are you going left or right in the tower?'
'Left, as agreed.'
'Just checking,' said Denser.
The camp was quiet as they approached, passing the peripheral tents pitched around their standards. The two mages slowed. From the nearest tent, the sounds of snoring filtered through the canvas. Across the camp, a horse whinnied and the unmistakable odour of pig filth drifted on the wind which gusted and swirled through the camp, rattling tentage, tightening rope on peg and blowing the odd snatch of conversation from tower or central fire.
Ilkar appraised their task. From the safety of the gully it had seemed simple enough but, closer to, the watch-tower seemed tall and crowded with powerful Wesmen. Ilkar looked the tower up and down as they neared it, silent now but for their footfalls.
The tower stood about twenty feet high and was constructed from four stout central trunks sunk into the ground and packed at their base with rock for extra stability. A lattice of strengthening timbers criss-crossed their way to the roofed platform on which stood the pair of Wesmen guards. In the left-hand corner of the platform, a bell was fixed to one of the roof supports, its clapper tied off against wind and careless elbow.
'Remember, the throat or through the eye to the brain. We can't afford for them to cry out,' whispered Denser.
'I know,' said Ilkar, but inside the knot of nerves tightened. This was not the sort of action he was used to. He'd killed a number of times before but with the sword or with an offensive spell. This, he wasn't used to at all. 'I'm going straight up.'
The ladder ran up between the two poles facing into the camp and finished at a gap in the waist-high balustrade that ran around the platform. The two bored guards were leaning on its outward edge, sometimes exchanging low words but mostly quiet.
Ilkar grasped the sides of the ladder, being careful not to lose momentum. The wood creaked alarmingly, his heart missed a beat and his eyes scanned the platform for signs of agitation but the Wesmen seemed not to have heard. For now, at least, the wind was in their favour.
Ilkar's nerves became a fear which gripped him for a moment. This was a job for a warrior but none of them could hold the spell in place. Even The Unknown, who had operated ShadowWings shortly after his release from the thrall of the Protector calling, could not hope to maintain a CloakedWalk. There was a subtlety to the spell that had to be learned and enjoyed. The ability to hold the mana shape when stationary and visible, and to perform simple tasks while on the move without losing spell concentration, were nuances not quickly mastered. Simple tasks like murder, thought Ilkar grimly.
Five rungs from the top, everything started to go astray. With each step, the new wood protested, not yet bedded to its fastening. Ilkar slowed but there was an inevitability about the head of a curious guard that appeared at the top of the ladder, frowning down into the gloom beneath him, seeing nothing.
Ilkar felt Denser's hand on the rung his trailing foot was just vacating. They weren't supposed to get that close - Denser hadn't slowed, and couldn't have seen the danger.
'Move back,' Ilkar urged the guard under his breath as he climbed inexorably upwards, slowing still further. To slow any more would be to become visible and to become visible would be to die. 'Move back.' He made another step, keeping his feet to the ends of the rungs, but another creak cracked the night, deafening to Ilkar's ears. The Wesman leaned further out, peering down with intense concentration, knowing what he was hearing but confused by what he wasn't seeing.
Ilkar thought briefly about heading down but the change in direction would give him away, not to mention catching Denser completely unawares. The stupidity of the situation fell about his head.
The guard straightened but did not move from the edge of the platform. Keeping his gaze firmly set on the ladder below him, Ilkar placed his hand on the rung directly beneath the Wesman's feet and drew his dagger with the other. He really had no other choice.
'Oh Gods,' he muttered, and surged upwards, blade before him, taking the guard in the crotch, where it lodged. The man grunted in shock and pain, staggered back a pace and fell to the ground, dragging the dagger from Ilkar's grasp, clutching between his legs as blood blossomed to stain his leggings.
Ilkar kept moving left, knowing Denser would take the right. As the guard hit the platform with a dull thud, his companion turned, his mouth dropping open at the sight that greeted him. He started to speak but Denser's thrown dagger caught him clear in the throat, his shout turning to gargles as the blood poured from the wound.
Ilkar looked down at his victim who opened his mouth, a low agonised keening escaping his lips. He crouched, snatched his second dagger and jammed it through the man's open eye into his brain. He died instantly. The surviving Wesman clutched at the dagger in his throat as he staggered backwards, his jaws moving soundlessly, his eyes wide as Ilkar switched into view.
Too late, the elf saw the danger and even as Denser grabbed at the man, the Wesman's furs dragging outwards in the Dark Mage's invisible grip, he tumbled off balance, his arm swinging back where it caught the bell full on, knocking it from its mounting. The guard fell dead, Denser on top of him, but the bell, sounding dully, teetered and plunged over the side of the tower.
'If we're lucky . . .' said Ilkar.
'No chance,' returned Denser. The bell struck the rocks at the base of the tower with a loud clang, the clapper breaking free to swipe at its dented surface on its single bounce. The strangled ring sounded right across the camp.
'At least the others know we made it,' said Denser.
'We're in trouble,' said Ilkar. 'Know any Wes?' Denser shook his head. 'Big trouble.'
Harsh voices came from the next tower and the beginnings of spreading alarm below them were plain to the ear.
'Stay down,' said Denser.
'Thanks for the tip,' snapped Ilkar. 'Any bright ideas?'
'Yeah, let's steal a boat, learn to sail and leave the towers alone.' Denser crawled towards the gap in the balustrade. The shouts from the tower were louder, more urgent. There was a moment's silence before the bell sounded, calling the camp to wakefulness.
'Gods falling, what a cock-up,' said Ilkar, raising his head to look out at the camp. Denser dragged him back down, the light of energy suddenly bright in his eyes.
'You want sabotage?' he said. 'I'll give you sabotage.' He closed his eyes and prepared to cast. Ilkar's face cracked into a smile.
Thraun had unshouldered his pack and was stripping off his leather before the sound of the fallen bell registered as trouble in Hirad's mind.
'You don't have to do this, Thraun,' said Will, his stance edgy, worry lining his face.
'We must have a diversion or Ilkar and Denser will be killed.'
'I doubt that,' said Hirad.
'There are seven of us against three hundred. We have to give ourselves a fighting chance,' Thraun said.
'But that's not the real reason, is it?' Will was staring up into Thraun's yellow-tinged eyes. Anger flickered across them before he shook his head sharply.
'There's no time to talk about this now.' He turned to face Hirad.
'Don't wait for me at the shore. I can swim. I'll find you.' The shapechanger, naked now, lay down. The Unknown hefted Will's stove and Thraun's sword on his back. Will bagged the clothes and armour and slung them over his. 'Best you get on,' said Thraun. 'I'll catch you up.'
The night was filling with the sounds of anger and confusion. Hirad led The Raven quietly along the edges of the cliff. Soon, the watch-tower was in sight and the shore angled sharply away to their left where the camp was built. Nothing moved on the platform.
'Where are they?' In answer, a figure rose in the tower. Denser. His arms moved outwards, then clutched into his chest. Six columns of fire screamed down from the sky, scoring sudden blinding light across the camp. Each one smashed into a store marquee, unleashing frightening devastation.
HellFire. The columns sought souls. Denser had guessed rightly that men or dogs slept inside the marquees, and each column plunged through canvas to gorge itself. Tearing through timber boxes, stacks of cured meats, vegetables, grains, rope and weapons, detonating flour which flashed fire bright within three of the store tents. Their canvas exploded outwards on a wave of air, sending planks, splinters, shards of wood and debris high into the night. Flame burst sideways, sheets of yellow-flecked orange snapping out, catching men and surrounding tents alike. The guards around the camp-fire wouldn't have stood a chance.
'Raven, let's go!' called Hirad as the camp dissolved into chaos. From somewhere on the wind he thought he heard laughter. He broke into a run, heading for the base of the tower in which Ilkar and Denser both now stood. FlameOrbs sailed out, diving into the tents at the northern end of the camp and splashing fire across tribal standards, scorching Wesman and canvas alike. New screams joined those already mingling with barked orders, shouts of alarm and the roar of two dozen blazes. Wesmen ran in all directions, carrying buckets, salvaged stores, and burned and dying comrades.
A handful of Wesmen warriors ran to intercept The Raven and gain the tower.
'Forget a shield, Erienne,' said Hirad as they took up position, the mage behind the trio of swordsmen. 'We need offence. And quickly.'
'Right.'
Hirad roared and closed with the first Wesman. The Unknown, three paces right, waited for the flanking attack.
The barbarian sliced left to right, his enemy blocking and leaping backwards. Hirad followed up with a cut to the neck which the Wesman turned away but he was in no shape for the third as Hirad switched grip and opened a huge gash across his chest. Blood welled through his heavy furs and he stumbled. The Raven warrior stepped up and pierced his heart.
Turning, Hirad saw The Unknown taking on two, sweeping his blade into one's side and kicking out straight into the other's stomach. More Wesmen were gathering and Hirad weighed up their options.
'Ilkar, we need you two down here,' he called.
'We've got a better idea,' Ilkar shouted back. 'Head for the shore, we'll see you there.'
Hirad refocused on the battle. Fire raged on in the centre of the camp. Fanned by the wind, more and more tents fell victim and the anguished cries of terrified animals rose above the noise of blaze and clamour of voices. Directly in front of The Raven, twenty Wesmen broke and ran at them. The Unknown tapped his blade on the ground, waiting.
'I'll take left,' he said, sensing Hirad's eyes on him.
'Will to my right,' said Hirad. The wiry man trotted into position. The Wesmen ran on, their momentum the greatest immediate threat they posed, their weight of numbers enough to overpower the thin Raven line if they so chose. Hirad tensed for the fight but at twenty yards the charge was shattered.
Erienne stepped forward between Hirad and The Unknown. She crouched and spread her arms wide.
'IceWind.' The temperature fell sharply as the cone of dread cold air streamed from Erienne's palms, whistling as it went and taking the centre of the Wesmen advance. Its broad front caught six men full on and they fell, clutching their faces, lips seared together, eyes frozen and cracked, their cries of agony little more than desperate hums inside useless mouths.
At the periphery of the spell, blood chilled in exposed flesh, blades fell from numb fingers and heads turned away, the whole line stumbling to a stop in the face of the sudden blast of glacial air.
As quickly as it had come, the IceWind had gone but there was no respite for the stricken Wesmen. Trying to bring some order out of the mayhem caused by the spell, they were taken completely unawares by Thraun. The wolf's approach had been silent but now he howled and crashed neck-high into the enemy, ripping the throat from one, his huge flailing paws knocking another from his feet to lie stunned on the ground.
Hirad made to wade in but The Unknown's voice stopped him.
'No, Hirad. Leave him to it. They can't hurt him. Let's get to the shore.' The barbarian nodded.
'Just as we planned,' he said, and headed north to skirt the first group of burned-out tents. A dark shape flew over his head and ducked low towards him. He flinched and brought up his sword. Denser hovered in front of him, ShadowWings deployed, Ilkar in his arms and caught around his neck.
'We've got more damage to cause. Get the boat and get out in the Inlet. I'll fly in,' said Denser. Ilkar said nothing, his eyes closed as he prepared a spell.
'You be careful, Denser,' warned Erienne.
'The thought is lodged in my mind.' He shot up and back, heading for the southern end of the camp. Hirad followed the flight; the black shaft of an arrow silhouetted against the light swept past them. Immediately afterwards, the gates of the cow- and horse-pens shattered and the animals stampeded.
'Let's go, Raven.' Hirad ran for the shore, leaving Thraun to his slaughter and the mages to their destruction.
Thraun could smell the fires, the fear and the blood mixed with the scent of prey animal and dog. He picked his way quickly through the grass, pale brown body blending with the colours of night, paws silent. He stopped at the perimeter of the human occupation, myriad scents vying for dominance. He ignored them. In front of man-packbrother, enemies gathered. They threatened, their sharp weapons raised. With the sound of the pack echoing in his mind and the smell of the forest forward in his memory, he charged.
The first enemy hadn't even faced him. He leapt, jaws closing on unprotected throat, left paw connecting with his chest, right beating another to the ground. Blood filled his mouth and coated his nose, his growl of pleasure the last sound his victim heard.
Panic gripped the enemy. They broke and ran. Thraun turned his head. Man-packbrother and the others were moving swiftly away. Water. His brain fought to remember. He would meet them on the water. He looked down, lashing a paw into the man he'd knocked down. He stopped moving, blood covering the wreckage of his face. Thraun howled again and set off, tracking man-packbrother, fighting the urge to chase down the prey animals that bolted here and there, their terror a tempting taste in his mouth.
Man-packbrother moved along the edge of the occupation. Thraun was inside the first line of dwellings, most of which burned, their occupants either dead or running blindly. There was no order. From his right, he heard sounds of alarm. Three enemy moved towards man-packbrother. Thraun hit them at a dead run, catching the first on his chest and sending him sprawling into the others. Consumed with the blood, he ripped and tore, his fangs chopping into flesh as he worked his head left and right, his paws beating, claws dragging.
From above, an enemy hit him with his sharp weapon. It stung his hide and he yelped, rounding on his tormentor, whose eyes widened. It had been a hard blow but Thraun's side had not split. He bared his fangs and advanced.
Denser flew back towards the blazing marquees, rising high to assess the mayhem he had so spectacularly initiated. Panicked Wesmen beat at the edges of the fires, their bucket chain scarcely making a dent in the heat and destruction. Ilkar's ForceCone had knocked the animal picketing flat on a twenty-foot stretch and in the confusion of fear and fire, horses and cattle stampeded away from the bright yellow blazes licking the air, trampling man and tent indiscriminately.
To his left, Thraun clamped his jaws on the sword-arm of a hapless Wesman warrior and further on in the shadows cast by the fire, he caught the odd glimpse of The Raven, tracking towards the shore, unmolested for the moment.
Ilkar, cradled in his arms, was getting heavy. Denser was a strong man and the ShadowWings he had cast were trimmed for weight but there was a limit and the growing ache in his limbs was beginning to threaten his concentration.
'What have you got left?' asked Denser.
'FlameOrbs or another ForceCone. I want to keep enough to shield the boat,' replied Ilkar. 'More to the point, what have you got left?'
'I'll let you know,' said Denser.
'How?'
'You'll start falling.'
'Funny.'
'Just get concentrating on those Orbs. If we can disrupt the bucket chain, we might get clean away.' Ilkar nodded and closed his eyes, his mouth moving slightly, fingers describing intricate circles in the air. Denser leaned back to counter the shift in balance.
Denser watched the expert movements of the efficient mage, arms almost still, hands creating the shape with the words his mouth framed. Nothing was wasted, no mana stamina escaped. He was a consummate mage, his magic learned through long years and honed through sometimes agonising practice. Denser knew this because it had been the same for him.
Yet, despite Ilkar's clever use of his stamina, he was beginning to tire while Denser felt as fresh as he had before he had cast his CloakedWalk. Something had happened to him during his casting of Dawnthief. A new linking with the mana, a coupling forged deep in the core of his being. And it had given him new ways to construct his shapes. Much as Styliann harnessed mana in a way so thrifty and quick it took away the breath, so Denser had that understanding. But it was more than mere understanding. It was fundamental coexistence with the fuel of magic.
Ilkar nodded, Denser's signal that he was ready to cast. His eyes were now open, focused on the target ahead. Denser flew above the bucket chain, out over Triverne Inlet and round again, coming up the line giving Ilkar the widest target area he could.
'FlameOrbs.' Ilkar clapped his hands and opened his palms. A trio of orange globes rested there, growing to the size of apples before he jerked his hands down and apart, the FlameOrbs flashing away. They grew as they fell, to the size of skulls when they collided with the unprotected Wesmen, splashing fire that consumed fur and flesh, the screams of the burning rising over the crackle of the fires that engulfed the camp.
Denser, his arms pained from shoulder to wrist, headed down to the beach.
Hirad broke into a sprint as Ilkar's FlameOrbs destroyed the bucket chain, fracturing the Wesmen's fragile organisation. He raced around the final tents before the shore, leading The Raven across the sand, the Wesmen forgetting all thoughts of saving their tents, turning instead to help kinsmen whose agonised cries split the night.
Ahead of him, Thraun paused, looked to see that Will was safe, and streaked across the sand towards Denser and Ilkar who had landed near the boats. Hirad pushed on, crunching sand underfoot, the rhythmic fall of small waves on the shore contrasting with the clamour of noise from the ruined camp. Ahead of him, Thraun brought down a Wesman warrior from behind, the man's bucket flying from his grasp, the warning sounds of his kinsmen too late to save him.
There was a dip in the level of the bedlam. The fires raged on but the Wesmen paused, making a concerted move for their weaponry as it dawned on them exactly what was happening.
'We've got to move fast,' said The Unknown by Hirad's shoulder.
'Raven!' shouted Hirad. 'Raven with me.' He charged towards a knot of Wesmen who had gathered near Thraun. The wolf snarled, darting in, jaws snapping, claws whistling through the air. Wary, the Wesmen kept their distance. But they couldn't avoid The Raven.
'Erienne, find a boat. We need a fast sail. Will, defend the mages. Unknown, with me.' He tore into the Wesmen, sword chopping through fur and flesh. Beside him, The Unknown's blade caught the glare of the fires as it plunged into his victims. Thraun, sensing he was helped, howled and leapt, jaws burying into a shoulder.
Hirad parried an axe sweep to his head, his sword sliding down the shaft, shaving wood and chopping the gripping fingers from his assailant's hands. The man shuddered, mouth open in shock, axe falling. Hirad's next blow took out his throat. More Wesmen saw them. Thraun ran over his latest kill to attack the oncoming pack. Swords rose and fell but Hirad could see as he smashed a fist into an enemy nose and brought his blade through his stomach, that Thraun sustained no wounds.
From behind them, blue lightning arced across the sky, piercing the eyes of three Wesmen who fell clutching at their smoking faces. The attack faltered. Hirad batted aside a clumsy thrust, stepped inside, head-butted his opponent back and followed up with a stab clear through the heart. Beside him, The Unknown raked his blade across two chests, blood fountaining from a sliced artery and smashed lung while Thraun's snarls and growls accompanied Wesmen cries of desperation.
Hirad glanced over his shoulder. Ilkar and Erienne had pushed a boat out on to the water. At twenty feet long, it would easily take them all. Will was tugging at the sail stays, slightly unsteady as he stood on the rocking vessel. It was time to fall back.