Free Ravensoul by James Barclay

Blackthorne from refusing to believe what he had just seen. A brief conversation, plenty of finger pointing and, latterly, drawn swords. But never mind all that. Lines on the armour of the figures had blazed with light which had lashed out at Gresse and his men.
    The invaders themselves didn’t so much as move a muscle. Yet Gresse was hurled fully fifty yards back and he was the lucky one. Others who had rushed in more quickly were lying dismembered amongst the first row of vines. A few had survived the initial onslaught and were being ignored by their attackers while they screamed their agony clinging onto the stumps of hands, fought with boiling entrails or stared wide-eyed at terrible gashes. And all in the blink of an eye.
    The invaders moved on. One stopped to brush what must have been gore from his boot and then all reassumed their long, casual stride, the machine following in their wake.
    ‘Get messengers back to the lodge. Every mage to be ready. Every horseman saddled and awaiting a message to take out to the cities and towns.’
    Blackthorne shouted his orders over his shoulder as he ran headlong down the slope, using vines to break his speed. Gresse was moving but it meant little. One leg was broken at the knee and jammed under his body at a sickening angle. There was crimson staining the dry earth. The enemy would roll right over him.
    Every fear that Blackthorne had for Balaia surfaced once more. Every nightmare revisited him in those few moments while he slipped and slithered to his friend. And all that Gresse had said so recently hung in the air to taunt him.
    The air flashed yellow. Blackthorne turned to see God’s Eyes arcing high towards the enemy. Six of them, moving fast.
    ‘Catch those, you bastards,’ he said.
    Blackthorne saw the trio tracking the skull-sized orbs of mana fire. They made no attempt to run and he got the impression they were merely curious about what was coming at them. They didn’t break stride, they didn’t flinch. The orbs struck them square on. Armour flared. Yellow light swept across the valley floor. An alien screech echoed out.
    And when the light faded, Blackthorne could see the invaders lying motionless, burning brightly. Behind them, the machine and the animals that pulled it had stopped. Blackthorne jumped to his feet and punched the air.
    ‘Die screaming, you fuckers!’ he shouted, and cheers rose from the watching riders and mages.
    At his feet, Gresse coughed. Blackthorne knelt to tend to him and found the older baron smiling.
    ‘You still can’t shake it off, can you?’ Gresse said, voice sounding strong and sure.
    ‘What, old friend?’
    ‘That gutter language Hirad Coldheart taught you when he was living in the Balan Mountains all those years back.’
    Blackthorne chuckled. ‘He had a unique way with words, it’s true. Effective if a little lacking in sophistication at times. Right. Think I’d better arrange a stretcher for you. That leg looks bad.’
    ‘You should try knowing how it feels,’ said Gresse.
    ‘Lie still.’
    ‘I hadn’t thought to leap nimbly to my feet.’
    Blackthorne stood and waved a rider to him. ‘I need four men and I need a stretcher rigged up. There’ll be plenty of material back at the lodge. Be quick. And send a mage. Baron Gresse needs his pain removed.’
    ‘I do not need a mage, thank you very much.’
    ‘Yes, you do, Gresse. Trust me on this. Go.’
    ‘Yes, Baron.’
    The rider turned and put his heels to his horse. The animal galloped away. Blackthorne sat on the dusty ground next to Gresse and looked down over the valley. The corpses of the invaders still burned. Behind them, the machine was quiet and the beasts were still, staring straight ahead. Some of his mages were making a slow and wary approach. One glanced in his direction and he nodded his permission for them to continue.
    ‘I wonder who they were,’ said Blackthorne.
    ‘Garonin. Or I think that’s what one of them said.’
    ‘Well it’s a name, but