Andrea Höst: Voice of the Lost

"No. Vecka is more horse than deskai. They can breed to either race."

"I see. It would seem this Tanis Araina hurries to our aid. According to her wend-whisper, she is less than a quarter-measure away and regrets her failure to reach us before sunset."

"Wonderful!" exclaimed the Mersian.

Cor-Ibis lifted a hand, a short, sharp movement, adding a few hasty words beneath his breath. The air shuddered, and Medair was nearly knocked from her feet by an invisible blow. She had to clutch the smooth stone of the parapet to keep upright.

"A gate," Cor-Ibis said tersely as the blast died away. Medair’s ears were ringing. "Pass on to all points," he ordered Avahn. "If Estarion can produce a gate so soon after transporting his army here, we must focus much of our own defence on counteracting them. Or allow the fight within the walls."

"How can he–?" Avahn asked, then restrained himself, obediently sending messages to mages throughout Athere.

But his question hung in the air, passing in glances between those who waited tensed for the next move. A gate was beyond the strength of even adepts, and could only be produced by melding power in a grouped casting, or through the enhancement of a rahlstone. The use of gates large and enduring enough to transport an army had already warned Athere’s defenders that Estarion must have at his command dozens of mages of the highest calibre. That there were enough casters to use gates in battle, in addition to the enchantments which would protect an attacking force from massed sleep or death, suggested immense superiority of both number and strength of casters…as the Palladian Empire’s defenders had faced, when the Ibisians had invaded…

"It seems to me," the Kier said into the hush, "that the Horn must be used. If it summons no aid, we have lost nothing. We are outnumbered in a battle where the rules are no longer familiar. I am willing to take the risk that we might hasten our deaths." She signalled one of her attendants to fetch the box.

"In range," the Kend announced, and gave a command which sent a hail of arrows down on the approaching troops. Selected mages added a drift of combative magic – flame darts, poison clouds, blood roses. Medair stepped forward to see the volley hit, and flinched as one of the spells was reflected back to the top of Ahrenrhen. There was a muffled shriek and a flurry of movement along the wall to the right, where the flame darts had caught a few unprepared. Not so the southern troops, whose raised shields reflected the arrow shot. Most of them hadn’t even wavered in their chanting.

Only one of the defenders' spells had not been deflected or dispersed. Medair could see a dull green cloud drifting over the first line of attacker, some distance to the east. But, as she watched, a little whirlwind whipped it away.

With barely a pause, the first two ranks of attackers, all along the vast southern reach of Ahrenrhen, took two running steps forward and launched themselves into the air. Not flying, exactly, but bounding up toward the top of the wall as if they weighed little more than thistledown. Medair backed hastily away as Cor-Ibis snapped out a word of activation.

A blast of icy wind tossed the Southerners awry, and most of them were catapulted backwards to land in the midst of their troops, the upraised swords of their own forces doing more damage than their fall. A few still reached the wall. They were significantly outnumbered, but a giant now stood among Athere’s defenders, far along the wall to Medair’s right.

Barely had the first wave been flung away when another two ranks of soldiers leapt upwards. Again Cor-Ibis raised a gale sufficient to knock the nearest back, but those further down the wall had not managed it. Medair staggered as Keridahl Antellar disrupted another gate. Cor-Ibis said something about set-spells, but Medair could barely hear him through the ringing in her ears. And then came the song of the Horn, as the Kier opened the box.

Keridahl Antellar warded another gate, but even as those around the Kier’s vantage point struggled to remain on their feet, the sky warped and twisted, shimmering as if from the heat of a fire. How could Estarion summon so many, almost more quickly than they could disrupt them?

The gates were drawing vital attention from the army leaping forward, and a surge of new attackers almost gained the wall. Pushing them back meant no-one was able to stop the newest gate, and the sky opened to drop a small cadre of warriors almost at Medair’s elbow. Two silver-clad giants and a dozen soldiers leapt in every direction. The Kier had many protectors, but was only saved from death by a set-spell of her own, which sent the giant lunging for her spinning backwards to land with a thunderous crash on the upward stair. But the attendant standing before her had crumpled to the ground, blood spurting from a gouged throat, and the iron-bound box he carried fell beneath booted feet. The song of the Horn took on a peculiarly ringing note as it clattered into the melee.

Medair, tucked against the inner parapet, found herself facing two women in leather. She choked as an arm wrapped around her throat, and struggled to turn away from her other attacker as she frantically thrust her hand into her satchel.

"The way to the wall’s blocked!" one hissed, trying to clap a pad of white cloth impregnated with some noxious substance over Medair’s nose.

"Tell me something I don’t–" the other began, then shrieked. There was an audible snap as Medair firmly removed the arm about her throat. Smiling, she threw the woman off the wall into the street below. The other went the same way, a moment later.

It felt too good. Medair hastily removed the strength ring, even as she was buffeted by stumbling Ibisians. She didn’t dare fight within the curious euphoria of the ring, any more than the Ibisians would risk most of their arsenal of combat spells with enemy and ally in close melee. Invisibility was a far better option and she hastily took it, working to get out of the press of battle. The struggle surged toward the left, where the remaining silver giant was trying to reach the Kier. Medair wriggled in the opposite direction.

Another gate began to form, but someone managed to block it. Medair was knocked from her feet when the Kend – commander of the Ibisian armies – backed into her. All along Ahrenrhen, battles were being won and lost amidst a maelstrom of sound: shouts, rushing wind and the boom of disrupted gates, grunts of pain, a man bellowing, scuffling feet, metal on metal. Close behind her, someone wept. The battle chant of the invaders rose above the cries and small explosions, and winding through it all was the song of the Horn.

From out of the maze of boots skittered the source of that song, followed by two Southerners diving for the prize. Still on her hands and knees, Medair grabbed it reflexively when it struck her chin. As bare flesh touched the bone of a goddess, the power of the Horn filled her and she gasped. It hurt, like running too hard for too long, like a muscle stretched too far, spasming into a knot.

Then one of the Southerners ploughed into her, grabbing for the Horn even as it began to fade into invisibility. If not for the shocking effect of its touch, he probably would have wrested it from her. But he flinched, which gave her the chance to roll away, fetching up against the parapet with the Horn of Farak cradled to her chest. Feet slammed into her back, her leg, and she dragged herself upwards to avoid further injury. The Southerner was searching frantically, unable to pinpoint the source of the song. An opportunistic Atherian spitted him as he struggled toward her.

Something roared, in fury not pain. The giant which had been so determinedly trying to reach the Kier whirled, incidentally cutting down a Southerner and the Keridahl Alar’s son. It looked across the heads of the combatants, directly at Medair.