but behind them, away towards the path, more figures moved. Many more.
‘Oh dear Yniss, save us,’ he said. ‘Sheth’erei, behind you!’
But the groggy mage couldn’t react in time. Half turning in her crouched position she took a sword point through the neck, her scream turning to a gurgle before it and she died.
‘No!’ Rebraal ran at the enemy, sword raised in one hand, his other seeking a jaqrui. It howled across the closing space, bouncing harmlessly off a metal shoulder guard. A second followed it, this one whispering its danger, connecting with the sword hand of the same man, slicing through his thumb.
But still they came from the forest path. Ten, twenty and maybe more. Rebraal, Skiriin and Rourke took the fight to them, the elves’ ferocity keeping them back from the apron and tight to the trees where they couldn’t spread out. Rourke dragged his blade through the stomach of one man but the next was quick, jabbing into the elf’s chest, and blood welled from the wound. Skiriin backed up, defending furiously, blade licking out at great speed, slashing and nicking. He downed one man with a rip across the neck but it couldn’t go on for ever. There were too many of them and a blade split his skull.
Rebraal pressed an attack and prayed to Yniss for forgiveness and to Shorth for vengeance. He opened up the defence of his opponent and raised his sword to strike . . .
But his strike never came. He felt a violent impact in his left shoulder like someone had hit him in the back with a hammer. The pain was excruciating and he pitched forward, the dreadful orange glare of the fires greying to black.
Chapter 7
Baron Blackthorne was holding the latest report on the state of his lands handed to him by a trusted aide. He’d ushered the young man to a seat opposite him while he cast his eye down the summary sheet. It was a mild spring evening outside, though in the cool drawing room at Blackthorne Castle a fire roared in the grate between the fifty-one-year-old baron and his aide.
‘Have a glass of wine, Luke,’ he said, indicating the decanter of young Blackthorne red on the table in front of him. ‘It’s ageing well. We’ll get a good price for it in a couple of years.’
‘Thank you, my Lord,’ said Luke.
He reached forward and grabbed the decanter, topping up Blackthorne’s glass before filling his own. Blackthorne watched Luke sit back down on the hard armchair and a smile crossed his lips. The transformation in Luke had been remarkable. Blackthorne had encountered him first in the midst of the Wesmen wars as a scared sixteen-year-old who had lost all his family. He’d been struck then with the youth’s pragmatism and straight talking and had made good on a promise to develop him. Luke’s farming days were behind him but his experience on the land and his remarkable head for figures and organisation had made him absolutely indispensable.
Blackthorne was used to making people nervous. He was aware of his stature and the stern air lent him by his black hair, beard and hard angular face, and he exploited his advantages. Luke, though, had no fears and was one of the few who would challenge him. Blackthorne respected and admired him for it.
He took a sip of wine and looked down the page. ‘Am I going to like this?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Baron,’ said Luke. ‘Very much. Mostly.’
‘Quick précis then,’ he said. ‘I’ll read the detail later.’
Luke ordered his analytical mind before speaking. Blackthorne relaxed into his chair to listen, a finger idly scratching at his beard, which contained an irritating amount of grey these days. But then it had been a hard winter, even in Blackthorne.
‘Grain supplies are holding up well and will see us through to first harvest at current population levels. We’re still monitoring two bakeries for possible black market sell-on but the others are clear. The scurvy outbreak has been contained. The mages are confident of no further spread and our shipment of oranges began to offload in the bay yesterday.
‘We’ve taken in two hundred more refugees, all families with children, and have now closed the town to more. Out in the fields, the planting is almost complete and spring crops should be ready for harvest in ten days or so. That’ll help vegetable supplies. By your order, mounted militia are patrolling the ripening fields, but since the first theft we’ve had no trouble and the refugee