Ravin Kil-Silversheir walked the twisting road to the outer gates of the city of Landmoor. The fog cloaked him in mist but he knew the upper sentries would see him soon enough. A fierce wind blew from the north, gusting the fog into swirling eddies and driving it south towards the shore. By morning it would all be gone—a clear bright dawn that would soak the fields in blood and ashes. For Miestri willed it, and the winds obeyed her.
He lifted his gaze and stared at the upper bastions, at the jagged teeth-like rows, the squat short towers bulging beneath graceful tall ones. Stone and vine and shrubs seeped into the cracks and seams of the mortar but unable to budge the impassive boundaries. The shuddering thrill of the magic burned in his body. He had never felt so alive, so healthy. Why was this magic Forbidden? It made no sense at all! To summon and the earth obey. To think and knees bend. To stare and watch the world crumble.
He paused before the turrets at the main gate and saw the flicker of torches held by the men on guard. They watched him impassively, training the sights of their crossbows on his solitary presence.
“Who goes there?” one of them challenged.
He recognized the language now. The power gave him communion with all life, to divine thoughts and intentions. He knew the soldiers would kill him rather than risk opening the gates to apprehend him. Even from the distance, he could hear the fear knocking at their ribcages. They thought him a Sleepwalker. That had happened to him before.
“Lower your hood! Be quick about it!”
They had orders not to shoot the Sleepwalker. To parlay with him instead.
“I have a message for your Commander,” Ravin said, his voice ringing with mockery. The words felt strange on his lips—the human tongue was so barbaric. “Lord Ballinaire’s army has arrived.”
He raised his hands to the sky and drew up the curtain of the warding with it. The weight of the magic throbbed on his temples, crushing his heels into the earth. He trembled beneath the weight but it gave way, ripping apart as eddies of Earth magic flooded back to their natural course. The weight broke off of him and started to unravel around the city, like popping threads on a seam. He stared at the portcullis made of wood and nails and iron. Reaching a gloved hand into one of the pouches at his waist, he drew a fistful of brittle shards, crunched like eggshell pieces in his hand. Thrusting his hand out with a shriek of magic, he tossed the shards into the air and let the winds he summoned blast them into the portcullis.
The lockbars and hinges and nails and rivets dissolved with a hiss of steam and a pungent scent, followed by a blast of blue lightning from his outstretched hands. The outer doors buckled and charred and exploded inwards, sending a boom into the night that should have awoken every soul in the city.
Crossbow bolts fell around him like hail, their tips wrapped in the same shards, but he walked through the rains protected and entered the city alone.
Soldiers rushed from the inner barracks, the officers screaming madly that the city was breached. Hauberks jangled, swords and spears snatched from the wall stands. There were hundreds there by the doors, expecting an attack—expecting a siege that would not come.
Ravin reached into a separate pouch for a small hunk of Deathbane the size of an almond. With the magic, he sent it winging into the midst of the charging soldiers and let it explode outwards in a gust. Part of him was horrified as the soldiers dissolved into ashes, their armor smoking in ruin as the magic consumed them, snuffing out their lives. The thrill of it rose in his heart. This was power. True power.
He glanced to the left and saw another crowd of soldiers reacting to the carnage. Scooping up another chip of Deathbane, he sent it whirling into their midst, popping up and mushrooming out—killing them all. Clouds of Life magic scented the air, and he breathed it in then choked on the richness of it.
“Breached! The walls are breached! The walls are…”
Ravin raised his hand and let out a blast of reddish flame, slicing through the screaming soldier. He tossed more pellets of Deathbane around the bulwark walls and near the barracks doors, warding them to explode when breached by humans.
The sound of hooves shuddered from the valley floor, a sleeping dragon rearing up in the night. Ranks of the Kiran Thall would storm the gates behind him, followed at dawn by the rest of the foot soldiers. The wooden doors would be prepared again before Dos-Aralon’s army arrived. And their siege would end quite differently than the traitor’s would.
Ravin started down the main street, building up his grip on the magic, hoisting new loads of it on his shoulders. He sensed Mage’s presence in the western quarters, waiting for him.
“Be patient, old man. I’m coming.”
Chapter XXVIII
Thealos’ voice thickened. “Don’t fight him.” He gripped Xenon’s shoulder and dug his fingers into the muscle.
Xenon shrugged him off, his gaze intent on the black-robed Sorian. A chorus of Silvan magic sang against the feelings of blackness. Two Wolfsmen began circling on each side of the old man.