The old man who had introduced the men to these devices was certainly enthusiastic about them. “Nothing short of a Juggernaut will be able to cut through!” He had held forth on the various bonuses these boxes offered those who fought in them for some time.

  Those under Degralk’s command who had been captured assaulting the Keep spoke darkly about how challenging it had been to engage those fighting from within them. That had gone some way to calming the complaints of the rest of the men.

  The mercenaries were now crossing the shield’s edge and had moved into what Souit had designated the “killing ground”.

  A horn sounded, and arrows poured down from Swinford’s battlements. Cattle did not understand the mechanics, but the Westerners had apparently devised a way to provide their archers with unlimited ammunition. They had not shared the exact details of the secret, but they were happy to equip the King’s men with everything they needed to pepper those trying to assault the walls.

  If Cattle had hoped this would stall the assault, though, he was disappointed. With an easy movement that spoke of hard training and extensive experience, the moving line of mercenaries shifted into several turtle formations, with each heavy shield snapping into a precise place amongst the whole. Thus, when the torrent of arrows hit those shields, they largely bounced harmlessly away.

  If that was not impressive on its own merits, that their advance barely slowed as they did so certainly was.

  “By the Goddess!” Jinks whispered.

  “Hush, there. That’s easy enough to do when the alternative is being turned into a pincushion. Motivates you like nobody’s business.” Drult’s voice was a low drawl. “We’ve done that a hundred times.”

  Maybe. But never as smoothly, Cattle thought. And certainly not without casualties.

  Despite its lack of impact, the arrows continued to crash down — with unlimited arrows, there was no reason not to — but now was the time for the Mages to begin their work.

  *

  “Not yet, Archmage.” Souit rested a hand on Angharad’s arm as he felt power swell within her. “We do not show all our cards just yet.”

  Although she knew this was the plan, the young woman’s frustration was palpable. She had been unnerved what little the archery bombardment had done and was anxious to see some material change come upon the mercenaries’ advance.

  The other Mages that the King had attached to Souit’s forces — those who still lived, of course — opened up with the full range of their offensive Skills. She could sense their frustration at her rapid rise in prominence (Mages were nothing if not hierarchical) and none of them were holding back now that there was a chance to show they were more than just her support staff.

  From their positions high above the “killing ground” on the walls and in the towers of Swinford, they delivered death upon the mercenaries in great swaths. after lanced down to explode within the turtle formations. These were followed by multiple casts of that struck superheated shields to crack them into pieces through which the nonstop tide of arrows poured.

  Souit nodded in satisfaction. So far, so good. The space between the barrier’s edge and Swinford’s walls was now littered with the dead and the dying.

  But still, the mercenaries did not break. The advance, although slowed, did not stop, and they would make contact with his own men within moments. The discipline required to absorb that punishment and keep moving forward was almost inhuman.

  Souit raised his spyglass, seeking out his opposite number. It was at such moments that he truly missed Stein. He doubted he would be scrabbling around trying to spot where this Gallant Stonehand was positioned should she still be at his side.

  Nevertheless, it did not take him long to alight on the throne made out of bone, which appeared to be the preferred spot of the leader of the mercenaries. But when he did, he found the ancient man with the flowing white hair staring straight back at him.

  Souit jerked the spyglass down, something about the man’s intense glare profoundly unnerving him.

  “Are you alright, sir?” The Archmage’s face was filled with concern.

  Souit cursed. It did not do his reputation any good to be seen to hold such fancies. The old man was simply staring into space, that was all. He could not possibly see him at this distance. “I am perfectly fine. A bothersome fly, that was all. It took me by surprise.”

  He raised the spyglass and found himself once again looking straight at the Stonehand. That gaunt face was pulled into a rictus grin, and he appeared to be excitedly mouthing something — the same few words over and over again.

  There were just a few moments before the battle started in earnest, but Souit took the time to pass the spyglass to Angharad. “Their commander seems to be saying something, Archmage. Can you make it out?”

  The young woman accepted his gift sceptically and pressed it to her eye, reacting similarly to Souit when first meeting the Stonehand’s gaze.

  Her lips moved as if trying out the words she saw repeated on that man’s terrifying face.

  “Well?” Souit asked as she lowered the glass.

  “I can’t be certain, sir, but I think he is saying — well, screaming, really — ‘Where is she?’”

  And then the front row of the mercenaries crashed into Swinford’s defenders.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “Truly Hot Work”

  Charging a shield wall was hot work.

  In theory, pure momentum meant the attackers would have an advantage when the two sides engaged. However, in practice, attempting to motivate men to run with any conviction into rows of shields and protruding spears was a fool’s errand. What happened more often than not was a lot of early noise and enthusiasm that waned away as the distance closed. This usually meant that the initial first contact when it occurred would, at best, be at a walking pace.

  The Stonehand’s infantry, though, hit the line of defenders at full pelt.

  In the normal run of things, thought Cattle — his shield arm absorbing a ferocious strike from a battleaxe and going momentarily numb — they would never have been able to stand against such a collision. If it were not for the heavy metallic boxes in which he and the men around him were wedged, they would, quite simply, have been blown aside by the rabid commitment of these mercenaries to their charge.

  As it was, although the men who defended the breach in Swinford’s walls shuddered under the force of the attack, they held their line.

  Cattle slammed his shield into the face of the Axeman, leaving him momentarily exposed for Drult to place the tip of his spear through the man’s throat with an economic jab. Exactly as they’d done countless times before on hundreds of battlefields.

  Say what you want for fancy armour, Skills and all the Magery in the world. Nothing beat good old-fashioned experience.

  “That’s it, lads,” he called, his voice oddly magnified through the glass plate in front of his face. “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Let’s see how much they really fancy it!”

  With that, the charge abruptly halted, and the second row of mercenaries arrived to reinforce the first.

  It was then that the truly hot work began.

  *

  Souit nodded as the initial assault on the breach in the walls foundered.

  “It seems your confidence in your metal boxes was well held, sir,” he offered to Donal, not meeting the man’s eyes. “I thank you.”

  “As was yours in the prowess of your men, Great General. After all, a tool is only as good as those that wield it.” The magnanimity in the old man’s words was somewhat undercut as he immediately turned to Taelsin and added: “That was the sort of thing you wanted me to say, right? Was the tool metaphor appropriate? I’m not sure he understood it. Did he get it, do you think?”

  “Donal, why don’t you go and see how our shield barrier is holding up?” Taelsin’s smile was a touch fixed.

  “Oh, it’s fine. Our beautiful Archmage, as well as having a quite lovely smile, has power to burn. She has ensured that the reflective core has been thoroughly well-charged. I cannot imagine anything short of the intervention of a god could punch through at the moment. Good girl. Pretty. Sort of catch a young Mayor might do worse than have on his arm, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Angharad blushed bright crimson. Taelsin put his hands on his friend’s shoulders and spun him around. With somewhat undignified haste, he unceremoniously guided him towards the stone steps leading away from the section of wall on which the command staff had positioned themselves. “Places to go, Donal. People who are not us to see. Why don’t you ensure all your little surprises are locked and loaded?”

  Donal took the steps downwards, two at a time. “Don’t mind me. I know when I’m not wanted. You want her all to yourself, don’t you?”

  “My apology, sir. Archmage. Since his Class Evolution, he has become a little irreverent.” Taelsin paused, considering. “I mean, I say ‘since’ . . .”

  “And you are quite sure it was that man that plotted out your defences? There is not a hidden mastermind behind it all?”

  “No,” Taelsin said, avoiding looking at Angharad, “that was all him.”

  “Extraordinary.

  All eyes turned back to the breach.

  *

  Swinford’s archers continued to pour a nonstop barrage onto the fighting below them. In the normal run of things, once the close fighting was joined, it was not seen as especially sporting for commanders to order flurries of arrows to be shot towards their own men.

  However, the strength of the metal that Donal’s craftsmen had been able to produce — combining their Skills and his runes in an unheard-of fashion — made friendly fire concerns much less pressing. While no one was ever going to refer to them by Donal’s preferred name of “Murderboxes,” they were certainly having an impact on the nature of the combat.

  The defenders were not having everything their own way, however. Although the metal casings were withstanding fearful punishment — far above what even the most expensive plate armour could weather — those in the breach could not easily press home an advantage. Their restricted manoeuvrability was such that once the initial shock of the line holding wore off, things settled into a stalemate.

  Stonehand’s men had arranged themselves into tight assault groups, with those at the front engaging the defenders, the ones in the middle holding broad, interlocking shields overhead to protect from projectiles, and those behind resting for a while before swapping out with those in the front row.

  It was an impressive display of teamwork that was designed to outlast an opponent who did not have the luxury of taking a break. And Cattle’s shield was already weighing extremely heavy on his arm . . .

  Then, suddenly, the pressure was released, and the whole of Stonehand’s infantry took, in concert, a step backwards, revealing hooded figures raising their hands towards the defenders.

  “Mages!”

  *

  “I think that’s your cue, Archmage.”

  Angharad nodded, took a deep breath and activated . The Skill immediately transported her in front of the line of defenders, facing perhaps twenty dark-cloaked Mages.

  “Well, at least that worked as intended,” she said to herself, throwing up a broad shield in front of the men holding the breach.

  The storm of Magery that struck the barrier a few feet before her was significant — she would have melted where she stood had she attempted this before her Class Evolution.

  However, that was the old Angharad.

  She smiled broadly as she absorbed the attack. Who would have thought she would have been able to wield such power? It was wholly intoxicating. The she had used to destroy much of the enemy’s cavalry was one thing, but this was quite something else. This felt like the sort of thing she had only read about in books. There were twenty of them arrayed against just her!

  The Mages opposing her shifted the nature of their attack — activating Skills for which she had no name — but it made very little difference. The Archmage could almost see what they were going to do before they attempted it, subtly adjusting her shield to respond to whatever they tried.

  The experience was so invigorating — so all-consuming — that she did not sense the opening of a black portal behind her.

  *

  It was Jinks swearing a blue streak that brought Cattle’s attention to the sudden appearance of an old man with long white hair directly in front of them.

  But before they could do anything — even shout a warning — the man blurred across the short distance between them and drove a knife into Angharad’s back.

  She screamed, activating and spinning around to face her attacker. A second knife was in the man’s hand, cutting and slashing across the young woman’s body.

  Angharad attempted to trigger whatever protective Skills came to her mind, but the Stonehand’s speed left her no time to think. She had all the power in the world, but no experience encountering such brutality. Defensive Skills formed and were shattered in the air between them, with the knife repeatedly finding its way through to plunge into her flesh.

  The men in the breach were frozen in horror — trapped within their metal boxes — none able to move forward to help the young woman who was being cut to ribbons in front of their eyes.

  And yet, despite her panic and pain, Angharad was somehow holding the shield protecting the defenders from the opposition Mages. Those men and women intensified their assault, seeking to take advantage of the Archmage’s plight, but to no avail.

  As she fought for her life, Angharad kept the defenders safe.

  But the assault was taking its toll. Each strike from the Stonehand against one of Angharad’s Skills was met with a burst of splitting arcane energy, causing the ground to rumble and lightning to flash from the sky. Spectral flames flew up into the air, dancing around them as they fought, but they did little to deter the relentless onslaught of the Stonehand. If she could have had a moment to think, there were any number of ways Angharad could have channelled her power to combat this attack, but she was simply too pressed.

  She was paying too much attention to maintaining the shield, to somehow keeping the blade deflected away from her pain-wracked body, on not losing her footing on the increasingly blood-sodden earth.

  The blitz attack had been so sudden and so ferocious that only now did Souit perceive the danger. They — he — had never anticipated a move like this. After all, what commander chose to attack an Archmage one-to-one?

  But before he could order any countermeasure, it was over.

  With one final, brutal strike, the Blade of Ruin drove his blade through a floating golden shield into Angharad’s chest. Her cry of agony was eclipsed by yells of anger and violation from the men she continued to protect, even as she sank down to her knees.

  The Stonehand withdrew his blade and cocked his head, observing her in a strangely absent way. It was as if he could not quite remember who she was and why they had fought. He raised a finger to brush the hair from pale face, staring intently into her eyes. Then, without warning, his hand clenched into a fist, pulling her hair upwards and exposing her neck.

  He beheaded her with one swing.

  As her body hit the ground, Angharad’s shield failed, and the myriad of attacks from the Mages streaked forward to engulf the men holding the breach.

  The light of that conflagration flickered in Gallant Stonehand’s eyes as he scanned up and down the line of metal boxes wilting and melting under such a force of mana.

  He raised the head of Angharad, looking into her dead eyes and whispering, almost affectionately. “Where is she?”

  No one noticed him slip back through the portal. They had concerns of their own.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  “A Terrible, Terrible Idea”

  “It worked. I have gained access to the Stonehand’s portal.” In the dark of the sewer tunnels, Donal’s voice was unusually sombre.

  Daine let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and triggered . They had decided it was best to wait as long as possible before making use of it. There were no definitive accounts of how Blades of Ruin locked onto their prey, but it seemed sensible not to announce Daine’s presence by pulsing out such a noticeable Skill. She hoped they had not waited too long to aid in what sounded like a fierce battle for control of the walls.

  Fretting, her mind lingered for a moment over the second of her new Skills, . However, she could not bring herself to use it. It may well help with the battle she could hear raging above, but it simply seemed immoral. Empowering those who had received grievous wounds to fight on long after they should have been dead was not something Daine was comfortable doing.

  If there was one thing the reappearance of the Stonehand had taught her, it was that the dead should stay dead.

  The Hyena whispered instructions to the two of her Cackle she had selected to join her and Daine on this mission. Azam was a short, friendly-faced man with dark skin and darker hair. If Daine had not read the reports of the carnage he had inflicted on the King’s Army during the running battles in Swinford’s streets, she would have believed him to be a Teacher or suchlike. The truth was rather more unusual. As a Bombardier, his Class was relatively rare and particularly suited to his chosen life of sabotage and mayhem, for Azam had access to an extensive range of Skills which caused things to explode.

  “You should see their faces when I use ,” he had said, grinning at her. “They think they have me cornered and then . . .” He exploded a small ball of energy he had formed in his hand.

  Apparently, Azam’s was used rather more frequently than its name would suggest.

  The second figure joining them was a nondescript woman whose Class — Stepper — Daine had never heard of. She had tried to engage this woman, this Jessica, in discussion about her Skillset, but the Hyena had unsubtly interceded. Even for Daine, with all her resiliences, it was still somewhat disconcerting to stand near an assassin of whose capacities you were unaware.

 

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