The Raven Collection

‘Bastards,’ he said. ‘Give them everything you’ve got. Pour fire and ice on them. Take them down. They can’t reinforce forever.’

Mages began casting and Heryst did too. A wildness gripped him and he found he did not care if what he did stopped them or not. He just wanted some of them to die at his hand. Heryst had always been an accurate and efficient mage. His casting was sure and quick; IceBlades were his favourite attack.

He targeted the centre of the enemy line, brought his hands together palms up and sides touching, and blew gently along the line of his fingers. The casting fled away, multiple flechettes of ice, flat, needle-pointed and with razor-sharp edges, flying to their mark. Heryst kept his hands steady. In the smoke and dust the enemy would not even see them coming.

Moments later they struck, snipping through armour and biting deep, pushing and burrowing before the heat of the target body rendered them useless. The enemy howled in pain. Blood spurted and streamed from countless wounds in his chest and head. He dropped his weapon and put his hands to his helmet. He fell to his knees and pitched forward.

More spells poured in from the upper and lower courtyards. More ice and fire, deluging their foe. Three more were cut down, two bodies burning where they lay. Lystern gathered a little confidence. Heryst prepared to cast again. Once more his preparation was smooth.

The enemy continued to advance, curious light chasing itself across their armour, illuminating what looked like runes or figures. Heryst chose his target and cast. The Blades struck the enemy’s armour, which flared blinding white in response. Heryst shut his eyes reflexively, opening them again to see the armour of every invader begi

In moments the figures were obscured by the glare coming from the lettering covering their bodies. Tongues of light lashed out on the crest of a wave of force. The tower of Lystern rocked on its foundations. Below Heryst, men and women were screaming. He had never seen such carnage. Heads, limbs and body parts littered the ground where just a heartbeat before sixty and more mages and archers had been standing. Some had survived the onslaught but the enemy turned on them. White light like teardrops poured from the complex rods they carried, tearing into the helpless wounded, blowing them apart.

‘No!’ screamed Heryst.

‘Time to go, my Lord,’ said Kayvel, returned from the dead and still standing by him though his new body was hardly more healthy than the one in which he had died.

‘We must fight.’

‘We ca

All the energy, all the strength and belief flowed from Heryst and he sagged, letting the sound of the machine and the dying cries of his own people wash over him. From the upper courtyard mages still cast. One section of the courtyard wall exploded inwards. More died. It was a procession.

‘Then what can we do?’

‘The only thing that is left. Get to the Communion Globe and warn the others. Tell them to run.’

Heryst nodded, direction giving him something to cling on to for just a while longer. He ran from the courtyard shouting to his people to run, to save themselves in any way they could. The rumble of falling masonry was loud in his ears. The stonework shook beneath his feet. The tower of Lystern was coming down.

Heryst took the long spiral staircase two steps at a time. Everyone he met he ordered away from the college. Down beneath the still-beating Heart he went to the chamber of the Communion Globe. Outside the door two frightened-looking guards remained at their posts.

‘There is no hope,’ said Heryst. ‘Go. Save yourselves if you can. Do not fight. Run north.’

‘My Lord, we are sworn—’

‘I release you from all such bonds. Go. Please.’

He opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Peace descended. All he could feel was the rumble of the approaching machine and all he could hear the distant crump of collapsing stone. Not long now.

‘Xetesk. I must speak to Xetesk.’ Heryst half-threw the nearest mage from his chair. ‘Enact the ward. Lock that door.’

He sat down and placed his hand on the silk.

Sharyr had retired from the research and casting of dimensional magics after the demon wars. The fact was, he couldn’t stand casting at all after it was over. His hands weren’t steady, his mind wasn’t sharp and he had simply had enough. But when Denser asked him to be master of the Xeteskian Communion Globe, he had felt it was a job he could safely accept. Not difficult and yet commanding great respect among the colleges and even the elves.

Since the failure of the Globe on Calaius, Sharyr had spent much time in the chamber, set away from prying eyes, deep in the catacombs. Rumour had it that not even Dystran knew where it was but Sharyr didn’t believe that for a moment.

They had not raised a whimper from the elves.

Sharyr was not an old man, though like every veteran of those terrible days he surely felt like one. He’d managed to keep his hair, an achievement of which he was proud. But still the nightmares plagued his sleep and tripped up his bladder. One day he was certain it would all fade away. One day.

He sat in one of the six low chairs with his hand on the silk, on call just in case he should be needed to help cha

‘What if the Calaian Globe isn’t actually down but the focus of the spell has shifted for some reason,’ he said as the thought occurred. ‘We assume a certain shape to their construct, and it is that we ca

‘Master Sharyr. It’s Lystern,’ said a voice from across the Globe.

‘I’m here,’ said Sharyr.

He settled more deeply into the chair, flattened his palm against the silk and fed his own Communion structure into the Globe where it joined with the other five to amplify and solidify the contact with Lystern.

‘I am Master Sharyr and this is Xetesk.’

What came back when the contact was open sounded like screams and rock falls. Nothing should penetrate the sanctity of the Globe chambers.

‘Lystern, speak.’

‘They are at the doors. They’re at the damned doors,’ shrieked a voice consumed by terror.

‘Heryst? My Lord Heryst, is that you?’ Sharyr’s heart was pounding. He could feel the anxiety of his team adding to a rippling in the construct. ‘Steady. Steady.’

‘Sharyr, listen to me.’ A second voice. Calmer. This was Heryst. ‘The enemy have breached the college. The tower is coming down around us. They—’

A massive crash sounded. Sharyr pressed his hand to the silk to stop himself jerking it away to hold over his ear. He winced as the report fed through the Globe. At least one of his team lost the casting.

‘Get yourself back in,’ he hissed. ‘Steady it. Come on. Breathe.’

‘Dear Gods above. The Heart. Stop them.’

More sounds of destruction. Sharyr heard a scream, cut off abruptly. The Communion flickered and steadied.

‘Heryst. Can you hear me?’

Sobbing from Lystern. Screams and explosions. It had to be happening right outside the chamber. Or within.

‘It’s gone,’ managed Heryst, his voice tight and whispering. ‘They’ve ripped it right out of its cradle. Dear Gods burning, we are finished.’

‘What, Heryst, what?’ But he knew.