Twilight of Kerberos - [Shadowmage 01-03] - The Shadowmage Trilogy (Shadowmage; Night's Haunting; Legacy's Price) (77 page)

Raising his staff high over his head, he allowed its single blue crystal to shine briefly, its light pulling the Vos soldiers nearest to him along for the attack. Alhmanic allowed them to surge forward as they neared the line and the foremost riders drove into the Pontaine defence.

Horses screamed in agony and men yelled in fear as the Pontaine spears sank deep into the flesh of the mounts. Seeing what was happening, Alhmanic jerked the reins of his own horse tight as he pulled up short but several of his soldiers did not see the danger until it was too late. They continued ploughing forward into the Pontaine line which by now had set their spears against the charge, the butts buried deep into the churned mud. The speed of the horses had been turned against them as they were impaled on the waiting spear points.

Cursing under his breath, Alhmanic rode away, determined to find another weak point, as the remaining Vos soldiers drew their swords and attempted to hack their way through the bristling spear line. He knew he had to act quickly, or more of the Pontaine men would rally to this point and their weight of numbers, not to mention their spears, would begin to tell against his smaller mounted force.

Desperately seeking an answer somewhere across the camp, his vision obscured by smoke, burning tents and men pitched in bloody battle against one another, Alhmanic gave a grim smile as he saw Otto cowering behind a line of his cavalry, clinging to his horse as though it would bear him away from this dreadful place.

A
FEW SCATTERED
shouts roused Tellmore from his studies, as sleep had eluded him once again. Raising his head from another stack of scattered notes, the wizard frowned. Then he heard – and felt – the explosion; a deep bass note, followed by the ground shaking and men screaming. Powerful magics were weaving their way through the air, and that explosion had been no mere alchemist’s trickery.

Gathering his cloak about him, Tellmore ran into the camp, the notes behind him scattering in the breeze. All about him was the confusion of men attacked when they least expected it. While some fought and died near the perimeter of the camp, others stumbled bleary-eyed out of their tents, only to find themselves staring at a lance point. Some broke immediately and fled, while others kept enough wits about them to reach for their weapons.

Seeing a familiar face, Tellmore called out.

“Renauld, call your men,” he ordered, directing the knight to an open patch of ground between tents they had used to parade the soldiers every morning.

Tellmore was gratified to see that the knight had reacted quickly and had already gathered a handful of men to his side. Seeing what Tellmore was intending, Renauld began shouting at any Pontaine man he saw and, with painful slowness it seemed to Tellmore, the handful of men grew into a reasonable sized unit. Leaving their swords scabbarded, they opted for spears, bracing the long staves against the inevitable charge.

The attackers did not keep them waiting for long, and a near score of horsemen began to charge the line. Having faith in Renauld’s ability to defend himself and hold the line, Tellmore trotted away, keeping to the shadows of tents as he sought to bolster the defences elsewhere. He imagined Renauld’s defiant stand as the only one in the camp and knew that if that were so, they would soon all be killed as more horsemen flooded in. Two soldiers came across his path, backing down between two tents as more horses thundered past.

“You two,” Tellmore said. “Defend me. Let no one come within five yards.”

He noticed the soldiers glanced at one another, but their natural instinct was to obey any commander and Tellmore’s authority was sufficient to bring them back into the fight.

“As you say, my Lord.”

He gestured them to follow as he ran down between the tents to a wider thoroughfare. Looking either side, he saw horsemen had broken into the camp from opposite sides of the stockade. Those to the west were making short work of hacking down some soldiers who had tried to flee through the camp’s entrance.

Closing his eyes for the briefest second, Tellmore felt the power of magic flow through him and he fashioned its energy as a craftsman might whittle wood. With a single word of power, Tellmore stamped his foot into the earth, and fire erupted from the ground and streaked towards the horses, leaving a trail of guttering flames as it shot down the thoroughfare.

One of the horsemen saw the incoming attack, its course an unerring bolt that flashed towards them far faster than any steed could gallop. He opened his mouth to cry out in alarm, just as the fire reached him. It flared suddenly, and a wave of flame engulfed both horses and men, their screams utterly silent as the air was sucked from their lungs by the intense heat. As quickly as they had appeared, the flames died away, leaving nothing but charred and smoking flesh scattered across the scorched earth. It was no longer possible to tell horse flesh from man.

“My Lord!” one of his soldiers yelled, and Tellmore felt a hand on his back, shoving him roughly into the thoroughfare. Stumbling, Tellmore heard the dull sound of hooves impacting on wet mud, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a horseman riding through the narrow gap between the tents, bearing down on the three of them with a spear held wickedly at neck height.

One of the soldiers grabbed Tellmore by the arm and spun him to one side, but the horseman adjusted the aim of his spear accordingly and his horse steered towards them. He did not see the second of Tellmore’s bodyguards, who had crouched down out of sight behind one of the tents and, as the horse tore past, swung his sword with both hands, slicing deep into the beast’s hind leg.

Screaming in agony, the horse collapsed, taking its rider with it as they slid in the mud. Seeing his chance, the soldier that had grabbed Tellmore jumped back up and, raising his sword high, plunged it down into the writhing mass of man and horse. Standing up, Tellmore brushed himself down and looked appreciatively at the two soldiers.

“That was good work,” he said, nodding his approval.

“Thank you, my Lord,” one said, giving him a half salute. Tellmore was about to ask their names when he saw another small group of horsemen beyond them, riding for the centre of the camp.

“Come on. We still have work to do.”

“C
OME ON,
O
TTO
, you worthless slug!” Alhmanic shouted at the cringing mage.

He had found the wizard cowering behind a row of tents, clinging with fear to his horse as if trying to meld with its flesh and thus become invisible. Alhmanic had snarled as he grabbed the reins of Otto’s horse and pulled it bodily back into the fray.

“Ready your spells, wizard,” Alhmanic said as they trotted into battle. “Our men have need of you.”

He ignored the young wizard’s whimpering as the mage gathered his robe about himself and used its corner to wipe his nose.

Hooves churning up the wet mud, they thundered towards the melee at the centre of the encampment that was growing in size and ferocity as both sides began to rally their men and engage in pitched battle. A flash of movement to his right caught Alhmanic’s eye and he instinctively pulled hard on the reins of his horse to veer it to one side.

A sword intended to slash his mount’s shoulder instead bit deep into one of its hind legs, and the horse shrieked in pain as it collapsed in a torrent of mud, water and flailing limbs. Mindful to keep his staff close to his body, Alhmanic threw himself off the horse as it went down but, even so, the impact knocked the wind out of him.

Using the staff to brace himself, Alhmanic staggered to his feet, ready to face his attacker. Instead, he saw two Pontaine soldiers pacing warily towards Otto who cowered before them on the ground.

On his knees and desperately trying to slide through the mud to get away from his attackers, Otto seemed to be alternating between pleading for mercy and trying to formulate a spell. Arcane words of power, shaken and mis-formed, died on his lips when one of the soldiers plucked up the courage to thrust his sword through the wizard’s neck.

Yanking his sword free, the soldier tapped his companion on the arm and pointed towards Alhmanic. The Preacher Divine smiled at the two of them and waved a hand to bid them try their luck. As they took a step forward, Alhmanic thumped the butt of his staff into the wet ground and felt the glorious power of the artefact’s divinity begin to spread through his body. The soldiers checked their advance as the crystal in the tip of the staff began to glow.

“Leave this one to me, my friends,” a voice said, and Alhmanic noticed a third man had joined them, one dressed in a dark tunic wreathed in a scarlet cloak, and sporting the broad moustache currently favoured by young Pontaine nobles.

The newcomer had the poise of a warrior, thought Alhmanic at first, but he could feel a sense of power emanating from the man that spoke of wizardry.

The two soldiers seemed somewhat relieved to have been recalled, though they did not retreat far, standing behind the wizard with swords still drawn.

“I am Tellmore, advisor to the Baron de Sousse, and you have violated the neutrality of these territories,” the man said in a deep, calm voice.

“I am Alhmanic, the Preacher Divine, and I claim everything here in the name of the Final Faith and the Empire of Vos.”

That Tellmore sighed at his pronouncement set Alhmanic quivering, and as he made to respond, he almost missed the subtle movement of the wizard’s fingers, and the quiet incantation subdued by his moustache.

A bolt of fire streaked out from Tellmore’s outstretched hand, building up speed as it crossed the short distance between them. How Alhmanic raised his staff to parry and absorb the spell, he would never know, but the Preacher Divine felt the hot flames blast his face as they smacked against the invisible shield of faith the staff generated.

Scowling, Alhmanic whirled the staff in his hands so rapidly it seemed as though a fluttering fan span in front of him, the glowing crystal creating a pale blue sheen of light at its outermost edge. With a brief prayer, he unleashed the divine energy and a vortex of power shimmered towards the wizard.

Holding up his hand, Tellmore met the attack with magical power of his own, but the strain caused him to take a step back as the force of the Final Faith washed over him in wave after punishing wave. Behind the wizard, the two soldiers and the tent immediately behind them took the full weight of the energy Tellmore failed to block and they were hurled a dozen yards through the air, weapons and tent contents spinning away into the night.

Seeing his attack blocked, Alhmanic quickly switched tactics, and roared as he charged the wizard, the staff held high above his head. He swung it down hard, intending to split the skull of his opponent, but Tellmore had already recovered from the staff’s assault and leapt nimbly to one side as the heavy weapon whistled through the air. Alhmanic cried out again as he swung the staff to his side but, again, Tellmore danced away with remarkable dexterity. Feeling frustration beginning to build, Alhmanic feinted a third blow but then switched his grip on the staff and buried its butt deep into the earth at his feet, uttering a single word of divine power as he did so.

The ground rippled in front of him, the waves spreading rapidly outward as they raced towards Tellmore. The wizard began to cast a quick counterspell but the staff’s energy reached him before he could finish, and he was hurled off his feet.

Scrambling to his feet, Tellmore looked up just in time to see the Preacher Divine level the staff at his face.

Then his whole world exploded.

CHAPTER SEVEN

R
ECOGNISING THE WAX
seal of Tellmore holding the folded letter closed, de Sousse leaned back in his chair and hoisted his feet up on to the desk. Shifting his weight in the seat, he settled down to read the latest news from the Anclas Territories but the first few lines told him the wizard was still being stymied by the secrets of the ancient ruins.

With a face that grew steadily grimmer, de Sousse digested the obvious lack of progress, frowning as he came upon the catalogue of troop losses. He had taken a large risk in sending a force into the Anclas Territories where they could easily encounter Vos troops, and he was not ready to start a war. Not just yet, anyway.

Now, it seemed he was suffering a rate of attrition among his soldiers equal to that of a full blown assault on a castle, and yet there was no glory to go with it. They had been dying in a hole in the ground that had, as of yet, yielded no reward.

It crossed the Baron’s mind that perhaps Tellmore had not been the right man to send. Perhaps the wizard was not as wise and learned as he imagined.

He shook his head to wipe away the thought. Tellmore was good, de Sousse’s gold had ensured he would have one of the best wizards in Pontaine at his disposal. Surely the possession of an artefact like the Guardian Starlight was worth a little time and, yes, even a few lives.

The Baron de Sousse shrugged to himself. Maybe the wizard would be right in saying such things, but that did not mean he could not give the man some aid. What was perhaps needed here, de Sousse thought, was someone who had a more... instinctive grasp of magic, rather than one who had learned it all by rote from dusty tomes.