his archers brought down with an astonishing shot as they rode into their temporary campsite. As he watched them eat and talk, even share the odd snatch of song, Selik knew they felt it. This was the march of the righteous. No one could stand before the Gods and stand in their way.
‘Rest!’ ordered Selik, once the carcass was stripped. ‘Sleep if you can; we have justice to serve.’
There was no complaint. They knew he was right. Come the end of the night some of them would be dead but a blow would have been struck. The first of many. While they slept, Selik watched and reflected. He had little need for rest these days, his mind churning endlessly with thoughts of duty and destiny.
When it was time to wake his men, Selik did so feeling like a father waking reluctant children. He served them hot tea himself, feeling closer to them than at any time and starkly responsible for what he was about to begin. For a moment these twenty men with dreams of their own - who wanted life, had wives and children - were more than just pawns to him. They were people he should nurture and protect. Just for a moment.
The walk was made in total silence. All the talking had been done. In the blank dark of early morning, deepened further by the looming shapes of the Blackthorne Mountains at their backs, the Black Wings took up their positions. It had been relatively simple. Anders, the garrison commander, posted no guards outside the compound, having long since abandoned the ghost town to its ethereal residents. This mistake allowed the Black Wings to lay their trap and, when they were ready, to spring it.
Across the quiet of the night came the sound of a lone horse, galloping hard. Its rider could be heard urging it on, begging it for more speed. The animal tore up the last twists and turns of the southern path before bursting into view in the dark cloudy early morning, sprinting for the only puddle of light it could see. Understone barracks.
Voices were raised inside. Feet could be heard running on earth and wood and the odd lantern was hung outside the walls, augmenting the firelight within and the braziers ranged along the top of the stockade.
The rider swung into the street and slewed to a halt in front of the gates in a cloud of dust, horse steaming and sweating, froth oozing from under the saddle and dripping from its bit. The rider all but fell from his mount, staggering to the gates and hammering on them, pleading with those watching from above to let him in, fear threatening to overwhelm him.
‘Please! Please let me in. Dear Gods, they’re right behind me. Please!’
‘Who are?’ demanded a voice. ‘Calm down, man.’
‘Black Wings,’ gasped the rider. ‘Can you not hear them?’
And there it was. The unmistakable sound of multiple hoof beats echoing across the town.
‘You’re a mage?’
‘What else?’ shouted the man, desperation edging his voice. ‘Don’t leave me out here to die, I beg you. Please.’
A brief conversation was ended by an order barked down from the parapet. A heavy plank slid back from its mountings and one of the braced stockade gates began to creak open.
‘Now!’ shouted a voice slurred by paralysis.
A dozen pairs of hands shoved at the gates as men ran from the shadows either side. Simultaneously, a quartet of arrows whipped up to the parapet, punching two men from their feet to thump lifeless onto the earth below. More followed, volley after volley, while the Black Wings drove the doors back.
Shouts ricocheted across the compound as the Black Wings pushed through. Selik headed them, moving left to slash his sword into the back of one of the men trying to keep the gates shut. His men piled in behind him, laughing as they came, slapping the gates back the last few feet and trapping one hapless college soldier against the stockade wall.
‘Split!’ yelled Selik. ‘Gain the ramparts. Loose groups. Watch for spells. Go!’
He sped on, breath wheezing into his part-paralysed chest. He ran straight across the compound, stables to his left, barrack buildings ahead. Devun was at his shoulder, others either side, and he felt energy flood through him.
The door to the wide low barracks building opened and men spilled out, half dressed, half asleep, still buckling leather as they came. Anders led them. It was too perfect. Selik swept back his hood and struck hard, right to left.