Guardian Last (Lords of Syon Saga Book 2) (3 page)

Feeble lightning crackled innocently, high in the clouds
above the approaching army, a gift from one of his mages, seemingly natural if
short-lived light that would not give their position away.  And in that brief
light, he knew for certain these were not Damerien’s men, though that was all
he knew.  No time to reckon numbers, no time to see their armament.  Very well,
he sighed.  This is what he’d been expecting, and his men and women of the Art
were prepared.

He set the first ranks to attack their archers hard and
fast, then move straight to cover.  Once the archers were subdued, the second
and third ranks would have their leisure to fight the rest.  After that, those
who had survived would likely be too demoralized to organize themselves, and
the mages could break off the attack and run for Pyran.  “Conserve your power
and do not underestimate the power of panic, for them or for ourselves.”  His
sleeves drew back on his arms as he raised them.  “Strike on my signal.”

“Guardian, as you will.”  Those nearest him moved into
position, and the others followed suit, spreading themselves in a line across
the hilltop, with the reserve ranks behind them.

Once the mages were in position, he dropped a firestorm into
the trees and scrub just ahead of the the point where the movement was
strongest and watched through the smoke and fire for the ones who would try to
restore order.  Those would be the commanders and officers.  So far, he saw
nothing but chaos swirling through their otherwise ordered ranks while the
horses nearest the blaze flew into a panic and tried to break clear of the
fires, disrupting the line behind them.  The glow of the fire played over
several ranks, and the Guardian frowned.  How large was this mage hunting
force, anyway?

Meanwhile, over the heads of the archers, the rainstorm
swirled angrily and froze hard, dropping razor edged shards of ice into them
and their horses, slicing them to pieces.  Beneath the hooves of those who
still stood, the ground shook, then liquefied and boiled away, carrying many of
the dead and the living away beneath the surface.  Almost instantly in
response, the armies spread themselves, skirting the area where the archers had
fallen, and another body of archers moved in from the other side.

“Fie,” the Guardian hissed, squinting through the rain at
them, watching order replace chaos in their ranks seemingly from nowhere. 
“Someone has to be giving orders!  Someone has to be in charge!  Show
yourself!”

“Guardian, ballistae!”

“Surely not.  They would not bring…”

But no, the girl was right. The Guardian could make out two
ballista crews settling their weapons into position.  He immediately threw
explosive force into the joints of the wood that held them together, and they
erupted in a shower of splinters that shredded through the men attending them. 
Two more beyond the ones he had destroyed erupted in white-hot flames, and in
that light, he could see six more turning to target the hillside.

Ten ballistae…  But why?

“Split the line on me, and get yourselves to cover north and
south!  Go!” called the Guardian.  The mages complied with his order, but as he
watched them, the ballistae did not change their alignment to follow.  As he
suspected, they were set to aim only at the broad hillside, in the general
direction from whence they were attacked.  Even if they stood in the open, the
mages were effectively invisible in the dusky light until they attacked.  “Watch
the attack and get yourselves clear of it.  Attack only after their bolts hit,
then move directly back to cover!”

The oversized bolts coming from the ballistae had been
dipped in pitch and set ablaze, no doubt with the same intention as the
firestorm he had set among them, more to illuminate targets and cause panic
than to cause damage.  The rain and sleet saw the bolts doused before they
could quite catch the trees, but still, the bolts found several of the mages in
cover.

The other mages came forward and threw their power over the
enemy below while a few saw to the wounded.  To their credit, only those mages nearest
the ballistae targeted them, pulverizing them instantly, while the rest focused
their attention where they could do the most harm.  Elsewhere, horses shrieked
and threw their riders in the swarms of snakes around their hooves, and soldiers
went mad with an unseen terror attacking those nearest them.  Some of the mages,
whom the Guardian imagined them to be more subtly minded, merely extended the
energy of a simple touch into the mass of horses, which sent a circle of them
bucking furiously, throwing and trampling their riders to death and spreading
outward in panicked ripples through the ranks.

But still the enemy came on, more and more and more of
them.  What manner of army would come undaunted into that kind of attack?

The Guardian frowned and sent a crackle of sheet lightning
rippling through them, as much to attack as to illuminate the field and show
him what was coming.  The silvery light sparkled over the ground below as it
traveled, killing the riders nearest him outright and disabling many ranks
behind.  But beyond those ranks, the power faded, leaving only light,
reflecting back a seemingly endless field of weapons, shields, siege machinery. 

Tens of thousands of soldiers and knights on horse, perhaps
a hundred thousand just within view, were bearing down on their position. 
North, south…the army seemed bounded only by the sea on both sides and extended
back as far as he could see.  At the backs of their ranks came more ballistae,
catapults, siege towers… This was no army of mage hunters.  This was an invasion
force. 

Cragen was invading Syon.

This was not possible.  The Guardian had seen the remnants
of the Byrandian army whipped back to Byrandia like a pack of mangy graetnas
during the Battle of the Liberation.  Cragen could not possibly have raised a new
force of this magnitude since then.  Yet he had.  But how? 

A ripple of genuine fear shuddered through his body. 

No.  He would have time to speculate on these things if they
managed to survive.  Until then, these questions would only vex and demoralize
him.

Three of the younger mages moved off a bit to the south,
combining their energies.  The armies surged suddenly northward in a panic as a
giant wave of water rose in the already irritable southern sea and crashed down
upon them, carrying hundreds out to sea.  Just as it was with those they’d lost
to the firestorm and the archers lost beneath the ground, within moments, the
gap in the invading army’s numbers had filled again.  It was as if the enemy
had lost no one.  Meanwhile, his people were weakening with every attack they
made.  Within minutes, this army would achieve this hill.  Not long after that,
they would reach Pyran.

The Guardian looked behind him, over the faces of the mages
as they emerged to look upon the army that rode toward them.

So many, and yet so few.  His heart ached for them.  He
could not expect to save them, not here, not like this.  More than that, he
could not hope to save Syon if they fell here.  If indeed this was an invasion,
as he believed it was, Syon’s only hope, especially if Damerien had fallen, was
to consolidate all their forces against this invasion.  He had only one
possible chance to save any of them and to save Pyran and possibly all Syon as
well, and he did not have time for discussion. 

Do what you must.

He closed his eyes and concentrated all his thought and
energy, following the thin strands of power around him, binding them to his
will.  Anywhere was better than here, he told himself as he willed them all,
and then himself, away.  He only hoped the survivors would forgive him.

If any of Cragen’s soldiers noticed the dull double flash on
the hilltop or the sharp reports that followed, they made no sign.  Those near
the front rode on, steeling themselves for more magical attacks that never
came.  Those toward the rear were oblivious to the attacks they had missed and
merely followed those ahead of them.  No one broke stride, but rode
unrelentingly onward toward Pyran.

Ahead of them, hooves pounding through the trees and the
scrub in the dark spaces between the hill and Cragen’s forces, Damerien saw the
flash and heard the snap of air filling into a sudden void where the mages had
been, and he smiled grimly.  The mages were away now and safe––as safe as the
Guardian could make them, in any case. 

“To Pyran, lads,” he called to the few who remained to him,
“for Syon and for your lives!”

The Guardian ran to climb the southeastern tower of Pyran’s
city wall even before his feet were firm on the ground.  Along the battlements
he saw stacked heaps of arrows and buckets of pitch.  Good, so they were
preparing.  But below in the town, the people of Pyran still had no urgency in
their movement, as if they still believed they were planning for a contingency
that might not occur at all.

“Sentry!” he shouted.  “Ring the bell.”

The young man glared at him from behind his bow.  “On what
authority?”

“I am a Guardian, boy!  Do as I say, and ring the damned
bell!  Do it quickly!  Lives will be lost with every moment you delay!”

The sentry considered a moment, then complied.  The bell
rang across the city at least as far as the next tower.  Those who prepared
looked around at each other, then quickened their steps.  For some, there was
excitement in their eyes, a chance at glory.  For others, terror.

A moment later, the easternmost tower took up the warning
bell with great urgency, and within seconds the rest of the bells were
clanging.  So the army had crested the hill then, and the sentries had finally
seen them.

No sign of Damerien, he thought grimly.  Surely the prince’s
forces had been overwhelmed and destroyed, especially if they’d fought instead
of retreating, as he was sure they must have.  Ildar Damerien the Great
Liberator.  Ildar Damerien, who had reluctantly accepted the title, not of king
but of duke over Syon for himself and his heirs…gone.

Both Damerien and the Guardian had known that their victory
in the so-called Battle of the Liberation was far from final and that Syon was
by no means free.  Cragen would not give up Syon, the beautiful jewel he’d
stolen from the Dhanani, so readily.  But they had kept their peace, letting
the people celebrate their newfound independence, thinking that they had time
yet while Cragen licked his wounds and rebuilt what he had lost.  Plenty of
time to secure Syon against him.

Then again, upon word from Byrandia, Damerien had mobilized
his own army at once, taking great pains to hide their numbers, and for what?
To protect mages from mage hunters—mages who were already under the protection
of a Guardian?  Mages who were nearly to Pyran already?  At the time, the
Guardian had been nothing but grateful for the help, as devastated as he was by
the news of the betrayal and murder of those he left behind, but now, having
seen the army arrayed against him, he could not help but wonder if Damerien had
known more than he’d let on.

Cragen is not the only one who can buy spies.

“Oh, my friend, my friend,” he sighed.  “Did your spies sell
you cheap, or are you yet out there with another gambit left to play?”

“Guardian!”  The sentry called from the tower.  “A small
party, a vanguard of perhaps fifty riders ahead of the main force.  I cannot
yet make out their markings.”

He dared not to hope.  “Let me help,” he said, and threw a
low spray of light across the valley that disappeared almost as quickly as it
appeared, lest it mark them for those who followed.  Most of the riders
hesitated at the edge of the light and skirted it, but one entered boldly and
rode straight through the brief light without slowing at all, as if hoping to
be recognized.

“The gold and green of Damerien, my Lord Guardian,” the
sentry shouted, a tingle of relief and joy in his voice.  “But even as they
ride like men possessed, they won’t reach Pyran ere the army can take position
to attack them.”

“Keep your bow trained on those behind them, son,” frowned
the mage.  “Guard the duke as you would guard your own kin.  Without him, all
is lost.”

“Aye, no need to tell me so, sir,” the sentry replied, an
arrow already nocked in his bow.

The mage looked around him at the bundles of arrows, the
pitch, but no archers yet to use them.  “And where’s the rest of your damned
militia?  Where’s your army?”

“Militia’s here, sir.  Mostly infantry, a few archers.”  The
sentry shrugged over his shoulder, not taking his eye from the scene below. 
“But the armies are disbanded, sent home.”

“What?  Sent home?”  The Guardian looked out over the
battlements in horror.

“Aye, sir.  Back to their homelands.  What with the end of
the war––”

He spat angrily.  “Only a fool would believe that this war
is over!”

“Aye,” chuckled the sentry darkly, “that fool would be our
Lord Mayor.”

“Was he asleep during the Battle of the Liberation?  Does he
not grasp that Pyran is the key to all Syon!”

No army.  The Guardian shook his head in disbelief.  Just
the town militia and a handful of elderly, pregnant and infirm mages to defend
the city.  The rest of his charges, the strongest, the best able to help
defend, he’d ported to a field far to the south that was flat and as clear of
trees and rubbish as he could hope and where they at least stood a chance of
surviving the port, but in so doing, he’d all but assured they would not reach
Pyran before the army.  He hoped they had the good sense not to try.  His
purpose was in seeing them safely to Syon and out of Cragen’s reach, and here
they were.  If Pyran should fall, at the very least, they would not fall with
it.

Not right away, at any rate.

The army massed along their eastern border.  Whatever they
were doing would take time, but likely not long enough to matter.  Perhaps
Damerien would reach Pyran, perhaps not.  With no army, eventually, Cragen’s
men would surround the city and besiege it, and eventually, the lord mayor
would surrender.  Pyran simply could not stand against such a force, and once
it fell, Syon would be all but defenseless.