Disciple of War Disciple of War (Art of the Adept #4) - Michael G. Manning Page 0,209

lifted his right hand to the sky and stretched out with his will, gathering the nearest threads of turyn into his control and directing them toward the black miasma over the city.

He was careful not to touch the turyn behind him, though, for fear of stripping the ritualists of the energy they needed to perform when their part came.

Will could feel the city that lay beneath the power he now influenced. It was a sensation similar to feeling one’s way through a dark but familiar room at night. It was almost like seeing, yet was still starkly different. He could make out the rough shapes of the buildings, but even if he had known the place, he probably wouldn’t have been able to label any but the largest of landmarks.

“Your time has come, Madrok. Vacate this city and this world or face the consequences.” Will’s voice thrummed across the plain and through the city in a quiet tone that was both calm and ominous.

As he exercised his will, he felt a hard knot within the city, a place unlike the rest where his control faded out, and his voice was rendered silent. It stirred as he uttered the warning, and then it began to move. That’s almost certainly Madrok himself, thought Will.

Or so he hoped. If there was a second demon there with the strength of will to overrule his control of the local magic, then his plan had already failed.

He waited, and minutes rolled by without any action from the city. After he felt enough time had passed, he spoke again. “So be it.” Then he took hold of the darkness spilling out of the city, tightening his grip all in an instant. Another will fought his, wrenching back control of most of the area within the walls, but he had enough for his purpose. A gut-wrenching crack echoed across the plain as the void turyn vanished, becoming a sound wave that slammed into the city of Myrsta.

The walls were far too strong, even without their magical protection, but the sheer magnitude of the sound shook dust from the walls and likely deafened any demon inside that was within a few hundred yards. Nothing happened, though. The army of Terabinia waited for a quarter of an hour, then thirty minutes, but nothing emerged to challenge them.

Eventually, the void turyn from the spell-engine built up once more and began to spill over the walls and onto the field again. Will waited for it to reach the volume he needed, then repeated his previous feat. A sound like the crash of a thousand thunderbolts slammed into the walls before echoing back toward the human army.

And still nothing emerged.

They waited, and when the turyn was sufficient, Will repeated his insult against the walls. An hour passed, and then another, and every half hour Will bombarded the city with a crash of thunder so great that it would have driven any mortal insane—if they were well protected enough to live through it.

The walls continued to hold, but even with all their wards, the attacks were beginning to take a toll. Some of the corbels supporting the machicolations atop the walls crumbled and fell, leaving gaps in the merlons that protected the parapets. Not that there was anyone atop the walls to be protected.

The spring air of Darrow took on a distinct chill as his magic repeatedly stole the warmth from the area immediately around the city. Frost formed on the ground, and icy patches appeared on the walls before falling to crash onto the earth below.

Just before noon, the main gate opened. The demons had had enough.

They poured out in a chaotic swarm, completely disordered and nothing like a human army. Varied forms and sizes, some as small as children, others the size of men, and some larger still. A rare few were even larger than the trolls. Their skins ranged in color and texture as well—reds, blacks, greens, and every other shade imaginable—some smooth or scaley, and others rough-skinned like coarse stone.

Given the distance, their arrival at the front line of Terabinians would take at least a minute or two, but there was no end to the demons spilling out of the gates of Myrsta. What began as a hundred became two hundred, then five hundred—and their numbers continued to grow. The gates vomited forth thousands, and once they reached some critical mass, they finally began moving toward the army waiting for them.

Though the men in the shield wall were all battle-hardened