‘I have to differ with your opinion,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘We are currently running spies in the Heartlands and mid-west. We estimate that armies in the region of thirty thousand are prepared, but inter-tribal conflict seems the most likely. There is no evidence of a mass movement of forces towards the Blackthorne Mountains.’

‘Barras?’ asked Styliann, aware of the beating of his heart. None of them had seen it. Perhaps the old elf . . .

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‘The point is that there is no real threat from the west no matter how large any Wesmen force might be. Without the magical backing of a power such as they enjoyed under the Wytch Lords, if enjoyed is the right word, they can never hope to gain dominion over us.

Indeed, I doubt they would get a great deal further than Understone Pass.’

‘After all, the Wrethsires are hardly an adequate substitute.’

Heryst chuckled.

‘Well, they could make the wind blow a little harder,’ said Vuldaroq.

There was laughter around the table from all but the Xeteskian delegation. When they had quietened, Barras spoke.

‘Presumably, Styliann, you have other information you wish us to hear, or is this just a social gathering?’ He smiled, but it died on his face when he saw the Lord of the Mount’s bleak expression.

‘There has been a problem in interdimensional space.’ Styliann’s voice brought total quiet to the Marquee. Breaths half indrawn were stopped. Eyes widened. Styliann looked slowly around the tables.

Vuldaroq’s face was red and angry, Heryst looked as if he literally couldn’t take in what he had heard, and Barras drummed his fingers with greater intensity. It was he who spoke.

‘I take it the Wytch Lords’ souls are no longer under your control.’

‘No, they are not.’ Styliann allowed his head to drop to his papers.

A ripple of sound ran around the table. ‘And that is why I have called this meeting. Xetesk believes the situation to be very grave.’

‘Styliann, I think the floor is yours,’ said Barras from a dry mouth.

Styliann inclined his head. ‘I’ll be brief. At least sixty thousand Wesmen are armed and united and ready for invasion. Currently they are based in the Heartlands and therefore ten days on average from the Blackthornes, but farming communities less than three days’ ride from Understone Pass are being primed as staging posts.

Damage to the mana prison during Dragonene portal opening allowed the Wytch Lords enough mana leakage to gain the strength to break out. We believe them to have returned to Balaia, where they are presumably undergoing reconstitution in Parve. I have a spy travelling to Parve now to assess the situation. As far as I am aware, those are the bare and complete facts. We are facing catastrophe.’

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Another pause for consideration followed. Scribbled notes were passed between delegates.

‘A masterly failure for Xetesk and its incumbent Lord of the Mount,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘The mana cage was surely your greatest continuing triumph. Gone now.’

Styliann sighed and shook his head. ‘Is that the sum total of your deliberations, Vuldaroq? We face a threat so severe that I am unsure of our chances of survival, let alone success; and yet your response is to snipe at three centuries of effort that we alone have made on behalf of all the peoples of Balaia. Unfortunately, that includes you.’

He sat down.

‘Let us not forget,’ said Barras, taking up the cudgel, ‘that only Xetesk had the means and the skill to imprison the Wytch Lords.

None of us in our Colleges were pushing to help them. I, for one, would like to register my thanks to Xetesk for their unstinting efforts, and indeed their instant reaction in the calling of this meeting.’

Vuldaroq’s face reddened and he sat back, the cloth once again dabbing his forehead, fuming in the knowledge that he’d misjudged the mood of Julatsa and, as he was about to hear, Lystern too.

‘I add my thanks to those of Barras,’ said Heryst, rising to his feet.

‘We have a critical list of questions to answer. These are they, as far as I can see. Can the Wytch Lords regain their former power and how long will their bodily reconstitution take? Does the Wesmen invasion rely on the Wytch Lords’ reconstitution or will it take place in advance of this? Finally, of course, what is our response and can we expect help from other quarters? The floor is open.’ He resumed his seat.

Styliann coughed. ‘I am slightly embarrassed,’ he said. ‘There is one fact I neglected to mention.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Vuldaroq, pursing his lips.

‘Naturally, the assumption has been made that the mana cage has been breached recently, and this may well be the case. However, I must point out that the nature and frequency of the spell calculations means that our worst case is that they have been in Parve for three months.’

Another silence, this one angrier.

‘So how long before they have reconstituted?’ asked Heryst.

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‘I have no idea,’ said Styliann. ‘Their work is not a speciality of mine.’

‘So they could already be up and walking.’ Heryst’s voice was dread.

‘Steady, Heryst. I think that if they were, we would have heard about it by now.’ Barras held out a hand to calm the Lysternan.

‘Remember, they are merely collections of seared bones. I can’t imagine any reconstitution being quick, can you?’ He smiled.

‘We’ve underestimated the Wytch Lords before,’ said Heryst.

‘And we will not do so again,’ said Styliann. ‘Hence this meeting.’

‘This part of the discussion, at least, is pointless,’ said Vuldaroq brusquely. ‘Because we can only guess at a timetable. We have established a need for urgency and now we should move on to the shape that urgency should take.’

Styliann nodded. ‘But we must still search for the information. I will report my spy’s findings in Parve as soon as I have them. I advise any of you with active cells to see them into the Heartlands and towards the Torn Wastes immediately. We can’t afford to be taken by surprise.’

Murmurs of assent ran around the table. Notes were made.

‘Returning to Heryst’s agenda of questions,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘I also believe his second to be vital but, as yet, unanswerable.’ The obese Dordovan pulled at his nose.

‘Why so?’ asked Styliann.

‘Because the answer will only become apparent when the Wesmen move. Whether it is before or after the reconstitution will give us our answer.’

‘I disagree,’ said Barras. ‘We already have evidence that the Wesmen are acting under Shamen control, and that now points to Wytch Lord influence. We don’t know the extent to which the Lords can dictate events before they are walking. I suspect their influence is great. Styliann’s spy will no doubt confirm this. I think we can expect an invasion attempt before reconstitution is complete.’

‘Don’t forget that the Wesmen have clearly been massing for some time to develop such a large force,’ said Heryst.

‘Indeed,’ said Barras. ‘And they are not fighting each other so far as we can tell. Not yet. Again, that is surely down to outside 115

influence. But, as Vuldaroq will no doubt point out, we don’t know when they will move. All we can do is plug the gaps to the east, wait, and build as fast as we can.’

‘And so, gentlemen, we reach the key to our meeting,’ said Styliann. ‘We need an army. And we need it now.’

‘Thank the Gods we hate each other so well,’ said Barras, ‘or we’d never have kept up the level of our College Guards.’ There was laughter. ‘How many men can we muster?’ The laughter ceased.

‘Julatsa has perhaps six thousand regular soldiers, half of whom will guard my City. In a month, the reserve can offer maybe another eight thousand.’

‘I have no accurate figures on our troop levels,’ said Vuldaroq.

‘The City Guard numbers in the region of two thousand and the College Guard must be three times that. I can confirm after communion.’

‘Heryst?’ asked Styliann.

‘Eleven hundred regular soldiers, two hundred horse and no more than two thousand reservists, most of whom are part-time City guardsmen. We don’t have the funds for a retained force any larger,’ he explained.

‘But including the best general in Balaia,’ said Styliann.

Heryst bowed his head in acceptance of the praise. ‘Indeed so.’

‘And you, Styliann,’ said Vuldaroq. ‘I suppose you and your demon spawn are more numerous than the rest of us put together.’

‘No, Vuldaroq,’ said Styliann. ‘Because we built walls to save manpower. The City Guard numbers seven hundred, the College Guard five thousand, and we currently retain a handful less than four hundred Protectors.’

Barras ran the calculations quickly in his head. ‘We are outnumbered three to one even if we include all our reserve forces.

What about the KTA?’ Vuldaroq sighed and sniffed.

‘I wish I could say they were mobilising, but the fact is their internecine squabbles drain them of money and keep them turned inwards,’ said Styliann. ‘I have fed all the information I care to to Baron Gresse, and he, at least, takes the threat seriously. The KTA are meeting but I hold no hope of a positive outcome. They make our suspicions about one another seem like playground rumours.’

‘Can we expect anything from them?’ asked Heryst.

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‘Gresse and Blackthorne will help us out with the Bay of Gyernath, but aside from that . . .’ Styliann shook his head.

‘Worthless parasites,’ muttered Vuldaroq.

‘I tend to agree,’ said Barras. ‘So, what’s the next move?’

‘We all agree how many men we are prepared to release, appoint ourselves a military commander and go home and review our offensive magics,’ said Vuldaroq, drumming his fingers quickly on the arm of his chair.

‘Heryst, is Darrick here?’ asked Barras.

Heryst smiled. ‘I thought it prudent to bring him,’ he replied.

‘Well, I think we can save ourselves the agony of choice over a commander. General Darrick has to be the only man with both the respect and the ability to do the job. I suggest we bring him in and ask him what he thinks he needs.’

There was a warmth around the table of a quality rarely experienced when the four-College delegation met. But it was a warmth Heryst dispelled.

‘And while we are waiting, perhaps we could answer a question we seem to have overlooked. How by all the Gods are we going to stop the Wytch Lords this time?’

It had been coming. The tension had been growing since they left Dordover, but it didn’t make the incident any less regrettable.

Now only at most two days’ ride from the Castle, Thraun had taken his charges away from any known paths and deep into a region of typical Balaian wild countryside. Tumbledown crags and thick woodland shrouded small plateaux and sharp inclines which hid streams and bogland at their feet.

The going was difficult and slow, and more often than not, the riders were forced to dismount and lead their horses over treacher-ous terrain where a hoof out of place could mean disaster.

The pace preyed on Alun’s faltering confidence. Thraun could sense it. And despite his reassurances, and the certain knowledge in himself that this was as safe a route as existed, Alun’s impatience threatened to boil over into open dispute.

With the day disappearing behind the tree line and late afternoon cloud, Thraun brought them to a halt on an area of flat ground by a stream’s edge. It was lush and green and hemmed in by sharp slopes 117

from which scrub and tree clung precariously. A littering of large lichen-covered rocks told of falls in times long past.

Thraun dismounted and patted his horse’s rump. The animal trotted away a couple of strides before bending its neck to the water, lapping gently. Cloud was building from the west and the scent of rain, though faint, was growing while the warmth of daylight was giving way to a cool evening.

‘There’s still daylight,’ said Alun unhappily. ‘We could go on.’

‘Light’ll fade quickly in these valleys,’ said Thraun. ‘And this is a safe site.’ He laid a hand on Alun’s shoulder. ‘We’ll get there in good time. Trust me.’

‘How do you know?’ Alun shook his hand off and walked away, his eyes flicking over the campsite.

‘We’ll be fine so long as it doesn’t rain,’ said Will, glancing in Alun’s direction, a frown on his brow. ‘Is he—’

‘No, not really,’ replied Thraun. ‘I think his nerves are going. Try to treat him gently. He needs all the reassurance we can give him.’

He sniffed the air. A light breeze was rustling the foliage. ‘And it won’t rain, either.’

‘Just keep him calm,’ warned Will. ‘We can’t risk him buckling on us.’

Thraun nodded. ‘You get the stove going, I think I ought to be explaining a few things to him.’

Will inclined his head. Thraun moved off towards his friend, his footfalls absolutely silent across the ground. Alun was sitting on a spit of gravelled stone on a right-hand bend in the stream. He had a handful of small stones and alternately rattled them in his fist or flicked one into the slow-moving water. Thraun sat beside him, startling him from his thoughts.

‘Gods . . .’

‘Sorry,’ said Thraun. He flicked his ponytail absently.

‘How can you be so quiet?’ Alun’s question was only half good-humoured.

‘Practice,’ said Thraun. ‘Come on then, tell me what’s on your mind and I’ll tell you why you shouldn’t be worrying.’

Alun’s face reddened and he looked hard at Thraun, his eyes moist.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he said, his voice overloud for the peace of the 118

stream bank. ‘We’re travelling too slowly. By the time we get there, they’ll be dead.’

‘Alun, I know what I am doing. That’s why you came to me, remember?’ Thraun kept his voice deliberately calm and quiet, though its native gruffness was always evident. ‘We know the motive for the kidnap wasn’t murder or they wouldn’t have taken them in the first place. We also know that Erienne will buy as much time as possible, and will be as co-operative as possible while she waits for rescue or release. I know how hard it is for you, I’d feel the same way, but you just have to be patient.’

‘Patient.’ Alun’s voice was bitter. ‘We’re going to sit here, calmly eat and sleep, while my family are one step from death. How dare you be so calculating? You’re playing with their lives!’

‘Quiet down,’ hissed Thraun, the yellow in his eyes gaining intensity. ‘All your shouting will bring us is unwelcome attention.

Now listen. I understand your pain and your desire to be on the move all the time, but I am playing with no one’s life, believe me.

We can’t afford to flog ourselves in the rush to get there or we’ll be serving ourselves up for slaughter. If we are to save your family, we have to be fresh and alert. Now please, come and eat.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You need food. You’re not helping yourself and you’re not thinking clearly.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t just sit here and do nothing!’ Alun’s voice put birds to flight.

From nowhere, Will appeared and clamped his hand over Alun’s mouth. The little man’s eyes were wild and his face was angry and contemptuous.

‘Oh, you’re doing something all right. You’re risking my life with your bleating. Stop it, or I’ll open your throat and the rest of us can get on with it.’

‘Will, let him go!’ growled Thraun. He half rose but the look in Will’s eye stopped him. Alun, his expression frozen, stared at Thraun demanding help his friend could not, or would not, give.

‘We will get your family our way.’ Will spoke into Alun’s ear.

‘We’ll go slow and careful, because that way we’ll all get out alive.

Now whether you’re with us or face-down in this water makes no odds to me because I’ll get my pay. But I think your family would 119

rather it was the former, so I suggest you keep your loud mouth firmly shut.’ He thrust Alun away and stalked back past Thraun.

‘Never let clients come along.’

From the other side of the stove, on which sat a pan of water, Jandyr paused and watched the exchange at the water’s edge, a heaviness in his heart. For him it was easy to see why they would never get far as a recovery team although the ingredients were all there.

They had the master thief, the silent trailfinder and the hunter. All were quick, all could fight and all had good brains. But the personalities were wrong. Thraun, despite his size and presence, was too gentle, too easy to persuade. Witness that Alun was with them rather than keeping the lights burning at home. And Will was far too high-strung; his need for quiet and control spoke of his lack of inner calm, and it was at odds with his profession.

Looking at himself, Jandyr knew that his heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t a mercenary, not really. Just an elf who could make money from his skill with a bow until he stumbled on his true vocation. He only hoped he’d find it before it was too late.

Tasting the angry atmosphere and seeing the three men sitting apart from one another, he thought it probably already was.

General Ry Darrick smoothed the map out over the table. The senior mages from the four Colleges grouped around him; the delegates had to be content with viewing from whatever angle they could. Only Vuldaroq remained seated.

Darrick was a tall man, well in excess of six foot, with a mass of light brown curly hair cut over the ears, across the forehead and above the nape of his neck. The untameable mane gave him a boyish look which his face, round, tanned and clean, did nothing to discourage despite his thirty-three years.

Few people mistook his youthful appearance for naı¨vety more than once, and as he bent over the map, the senior mages hung on his every word.

Darrick’s reputation as a master tactician had been made in the years that culminated in the loss of Understone Pass to Tessaya and the Wesmen. He led raids deep into Wesmen lands to disrupt the 120

build-up of men and provisions, extending eastern governance of the pass by probably four years.

Since then, Barons who could afford his and Lystern’s fees, and who didn’t already have The Raven, sought his advice in larger conflicts. That he would command the total respect of any four-College army was not in question.

‘Well, the good news is that given our regular troop levels, we are defensible, but that does rely on your estimates of Wesmen numbers being accurate. I would also be happier if they attack without Wytch Lord support, because if they do breach our defences, I fear we will have little in reserve to halt their march to Korina, Gyernath and the Colleges.’ He looked left and right. ‘Can everyone see all right?’ He gestured at the map of Balaia, the Northern Continent.

Dominating Balaia’s geography were the Blackthorne Mountains, which ran like an untidy scar north to south, coast to coast, not quite dividing the land into two equal parts.

To the east, the marginally smaller area that its indigents liked to call civilisation. Rich farmland, dense forests, free-flowing water courses and natural harbours gave ideal conditions for people and trade to flourish.

To the west, rugged terrain, crag, thin windblown soils and shrubland predominated, with only small pockets suitable for settling to any profitable degree. South-west, the crowded Wesmen Heartlands; north-west, the Torn Wastes.

Popular myth held that East and West Balaia were once wholly separate lands drifting in the vast ocean waters before colliding with slow and cataclysmic result. The rockfalls that still blighted areas of the Blackthornes gave some credence to the story.

‘Now, you don’t have to be a general to know there are three points of potential entry into the east. To the south, the Bay of Gyernath, to the north, Triverne Inlet and, of course, Understone Pass a third of the way down the range. We can discount the three recognised overground passes here, here and here in terms of an invasion because they are long, dangerous and simply unsuited to mass troop movement. That doesn’t mean, though, that I will be ignoring them completely.’ He reached across the map and picked up a glass of water, standing straight while he drank.

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‘You don’t think they’ll attempt to sail further along the northern and southern coasts, I take it?’ asked Barras.

Darrick shook his head. ‘Not in great numbers, no,’ he said. ‘I fully expect them to send skirmish and raiding forces at least as far as Gyernath, but they don’t have the ships for mass troop carriage.

Going across the bays is easy, quick and any size of vessel will do.’

‘So what will they do?’ Vuldaroq’s eyes traced the outline of the map and Balaia’s uneven, pitted coastline.

‘There are two linked agendas we have to consider, one sub-ordinate to the other,’ replied Darrick. ‘The Wesmen have long vowed to rid the world of the four Colleges. The Wytch Lords want that too, but only as part of the plan to control the entire continent.

‘The main thrust of an invasion is therefore likely to be concentrated on Understone Pass and Triverne Inlet. I’ll take the two in turn.

‘Understone Pass will take the majority of traffic. It’s quick, heavy equipment movement is relatively simple and the Wesmen already control it at both ends. Fortunately, its width is not so great that overwhelming numbers can emerge at too fast a pace, but any army will have to be confronted right at its eastern entrance, so limiting our defensive options.

‘I will station myself there with five hundred horse and five thousand foot as a matter of urgency. Understone itself is merely an early-warning station; its KTA garrison numbers fewer than one hundred and is pitifully trained and experienced. I will call for more magical support when I have assessed the defensive requirements first hand.

‘I can’t over-stress the importance of holding them at the pass.

Understone is less than four days’ ride from Xetesk, only five from where we are standing now, and there is precious little in between to halt an advance.’

He paused to gauge reaction. The senior mages were concentrating hard. Barras was biting the tips of his fingers, Vuldaroq’s lips were pursed and Heryst was nodding, still scanning the map.

Styliann frowned.

‘You have a point to raise, my Lord?’ Darrick asked of him.

‘Could we not take the pass?’ he suggested.

‘It is not tactically necessary given my defensive brief, and I 122

personally would consider it an act of monumental folly to try. The pass is undoubtedly being reinforced as we speak. The barracks inside can accommodate in excess of six thousand men.’

‘But with significant offensive magic . . .’ said Styliann.

‘Hand to hand, we would lose men in a three-to-one ratio. We don’t have the numbers to spare. Your magic would be required to improve those odds better than one to one for me to consider it as a serious option.’ Darrick shrugged. ‘I know of no such magics that can be brought to bear to that effect.’

Styliann smiled. ‘No. But should taking the pass become a strategic necessity – after all, we will surely need to take on the Wytch Lords, and they can hardly be expected to come to us – is it possible?’

‘Everything is possible, my Lord Styliann.’ Darrick’s response was cool.

‘Do you have something in mind you’d like to share?’ asked Vuldaroq.

‘No,’ said Styliann. ‘I just do not wish to see us closing the door on any potential advantages.’

‘I believe I can be trusted to ensure that doesn’t happen.’

Darrick’s bow was almost imperceptible. ‘Now, Triverne Inlet, open, hard to defend away from the beaches and less than four days’ ride from Julatsa . . .’

But Styliann wasn’t listening. Not to retake the pass risked ultimate victory. But he couldn’t push the point without giving a clue to his aspirations. Something would have to give and, looking at Darrick, he knew he couldn’t change the General’s mind alone.

Perhaps it was time to let the Colleges know of Xetesk’s latest experiments. It would redefine the phrase ‘significant offensive magic’ for certain. He smiled inwardly and returned his attention to the military planning, suddenly desperate for a meeting with his best dimensional research mage, a man named Dystran.

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Chapter 9

The Raven travelled for three days through countryside that changed by degrees from flat woodland to rough shrub and finally to barren hills, moors and valleys. The weather settled into a cycle of sunshine interspersed with cooling cloud blown up by occasionally strong winds, but throughout it all, the temperature had a warm evenness, even at night, and riding was comfortable.

They saw no one.

Approaching Septern’s house across a high moor, the ground changed from heather-strewn hard soil to lifeless dusty earth. In the distance, the air shimmered, light shining through a thin film of what looked like dust whipped up by the wind. The horses moved easily over the flat ground, and all around them, as for as the eye could see, the terrain was largely featureless but for the odd stunted tree or plate of rock jutting from the cracked dead earth.

‘What happened here?’ asked Hirad. He looked back over his shoulder to where the vegetation sprang up in a line almost as if it had been planted deliberately.

The Dark Mage blew out his cheeks. ‘I don’t know. The after-effects of a spell battle, I should think. It’s a little like the Torn Wastes, though not as blasted.’

‘Could it be something to do with Septern’s workshop?’ asked Ilkar, peering into the dust-filled distance.

‘Possibly.’ Denser shrugged. ‘Who knows what effects an un-maintained dimensional rip might have on its surroundings.’

‘What in all the hells is a ‘‘dimensional rip’’?’ The Unknown’s face was blank.

‘Well, basically, it’s a hole in the fabric of our dimension that leads to another one or simply into interdimensional space, although there’s obviously far more to it than that.’

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‘Obviously,’ muttered Hirad.

The Unknown glared at Hirad. ‘And are we near enough to this dimensional thing to suffer some kind of interference?’

‘Hard to say. I’m no expert on dimensional theory,’ replied Denser. ‘What Septern might have done is anyone’s guess. Septern was a genius, but his records are incomplete.’

‘He certainly was,’ said Ilkar. He scanned the horizon in the direction in which they had been travelling. He narrowed his eyes and spurred his horse into a walk forwards. Hirad, dragging on the reins of his mare, fell into step by him.

‘Can you see something, Ilks?’

‘Nothing much,’ replied Ilkar. ‘That shimmering messes up my long sight, I’m afraid. All I can say is that there appear to be large dark shapes a little to our left. How far, I can’t say.’

‘Shapes?’ Talan was the next to speak as the rest of The Raven began moving.

‘Buildings, at a guess. It could be rocks but I don’t think so.’

‘Well, let’s head for them,’ said Hirad. ‘They seem to be the only landmark we’ve got.’ Hirad dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and led the way across the plain with Ilkar at his side.

As they began to close, Ilkar added flesh to his earlier description.

They were riding towards the ruin of a large mansion house and an outbuilding of some kind, probably a low barn.

‘Ruined? Are you sure?’ asked Denser.

‘ ’Fraid so,’ said Ilkar.

‘Is that bad?’ asked Hirad.

‘Not necessarily, though it certainly adds weight to the spell battle theory. Mage houses aren’t known for being easy to knock down,’

replied the Dark Mage.

‘Except by other mages,’ said Ilkar. ‘Or Wytch Lords.’

Denser raised his eyebrows. ‘Exactly.’ Inside his cloak, his cat hissed loud enough for all to hear, poked its head out briefly then withdrew in a hurry.

‘Oh dear,’ said Denser.

‘What is it?’ The Unknown turned in his saddle.

‘I think—’ began Denser, but a chilling howl cut him off. ‘That we are about to have company.’

‘What the hell was that?’ Hirad searched around him but could 125

see nothing, though the single howl had been taken up by more throats.

‘Wolves,’ said Ilkar. ‘Big ones.’

‘No, they’re Destranas.’ The Unknown chewed his lip.

‘Destranas? Then that means Wesmen,’ said Talan, loosening his sword in its scabbard.

‘Yes,’ confirmed The Unknown. ‘We’ve got to make cover.

Where are they coming from?’

‘The outbuilding.’ Ilkar pointed, and now they could all see, through the swirling haze that made up the horizon, large moving shapes in front of the distant black barn.

‘We’re in trouble,’ said Richmond.

‘Well spotted,’ muttered Hirad, staring around him for a way out.

There was none.

‘All right,’ said The Unknown. ‘Let’s circle north and west and come to the buildings from another direction. We might lose them that way, and at least we’ll have made up some ground.’ He caught Hirad’s eye and added, in a low voice, ‘Although what good it’ll do is open to debate.’ He pushed his horse into a gallop, leaving the rest of the party temporarily trailing in his wake.

For a time it looked as though The Unknown’s idea had paid off.

Hirad could see the dogs heading away from them, their handlers following more leisurely on horseback. He spurred his horse on, glanced behind him again, and suddenly the beasts were so much nearer and closing with appalling speed. They were huge, four feet high at the shoulder, and their howls and barks tore at the air and stung the ear.

‘Unknown!’ called Hirad. ‘We can’t outrun them. Look.’

The big warrior turned, looked and immediately wheeled his horse to a stop. ‘Everyone dismount!’ he ordered.

‘Ilkar, Denser, take the horses and let them loose if they are what the dogs want.’

‘They won’t be,’ said Denser. ‘If the Wesmen are here, we’re in bigger trouble than I thought. I’m going to try something. Only disturb me if you have to.’

‘What—’ began Ilkar.

‘Don’t ask,’ said Denser, and he turned his eyes to the skies and spread his arms wide.

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‘We’ll have to protect him,’ said Hirad. The four fighting men formed a loose semicircle in front of Denser, the rhythmic tap of The Unknown’s sword on the ground a metronome for Hirad’s heartbeat. Behind them, Ilkar slapped at Denser’s horse and it trotted away with the others. The elf took up station to Denser’s rear, his sword ready, as the first of a dozen Destranas tore into the waiting quartet and the Wesmen, four of them, galloped up.

Fangs bared and flecked with foam, a huge dog leapt at Hirad’s head. Surprised by the distance and speed of the jump, the barbarian swayed reflexively aside and put his sword arm across his face. The animal caught the side of his head and both tumbled to the ground.

The Unknown, his blade before him, took a squat stance and waited as a black Destrana, tongue lolling, sped towards him. As it closed, he shifted his weight forwards and, anticipating a jump, flicked his sword upwards and took the animal under the jaw, skewering its brain. He moved aside and dragged his weapon clear, the dead weight dropping to the floor.

Hirad had been lucky and had fallen on top of the dog. Reacting instantly, he clamped a hand on the dog’s throat as it struggled to get its paws underneath itself. He dropped his sword, snatched a dagger from his belt and plunged it again and again into the exposed chest, blood jetting on to his armour. The next beast slammed straight into his back.

Talan and Richmond moved together as three animals slowed and paced towards their prey. Neither side seemed sure how to attack or defend, and in the ensuing pause, Denser’s spell came to awesome fruition.

The Dark Mage brought his arms together and crossed them, fists clenched and held at either shoulder. He opened his eyes wide, saw six dogs waiting and circling, pointed the index finger of his left hand in their direction and said one quiet word.

‘HellFire.’

Ilkar swore and flung himself to the ground.

Columns of fire screamed down from the sky, six of them, each striking a Destrana square on the top of the skull. Howls of animal terror and pain split the air as the beasts were transformed to flame, dying even as they stumbled and tripped. The three dogs circling 127

Talan and Richmond turned and fled, but one ignored the mayhem behind it and grabbed Hirad’s back, bowling him over in the dirt.

The barbarian’s knife sprang from his hand. He was defenceless.

He rolled over on to his back, shouting as the wound low down on his spine ground into the earth. The dog leapt forwards, lashing a claw across his chest, splitting the leather and drawing blood. Hirad scrabbled backwards but there was no escape. The Destrana loomed over him, saliva dripping in his face.

Grabbing a handful of dirt, Hirad flung it into the dog’s eyes.

Distracted for a moment, the animal shook its head to clear its vision and The Unknown split its neck with a downward strike, the blade exiting the body and plunging into the ground scant inches from Hirad.

Silence. The wind blew up dust and bent the sparse weed. In front of Ilkar, Denser slumped to his knees, breathing hard as sweat poured down his face and his limbs shook. Talan and Richmond ran over to where Hirad still lay on the ground. The Unknown cleaned his sword before walking over to retrieve the barbarian’s weapons.

Ilkar got to his feet, brushed himself down and looked at the still burning carcasses of the dogs struck down by Denser’s magic. He didn’t know whether to congratulate the Dark Mage or rebuke him.

HellFire. Gods above. No wonder he was on his knees. He did neither, trotting past Denser on his way over to Hirad. He could see the remaining dogs and their handlers still running away from them and the barn.

The barbarian was being helped to a sitting position by Richmond. He was pale and obviously shaken.

‘How is he?’ Ilkar asked Talan.

‘He’s been better,’ replied Hirad. ‘Can someone help me off with my shirt?’

‘Not yet,’ said The Unknown. ‘We need to get to cover. Can you ride?’

Hirad nodded and raised an arm, which Richmond took, helping him to his feet. They moved to Denser, who had still not stood up.

Behind him, the horses were ambling back in a group.

‘You all right, Denser?’ asked Richmond.

The Dark Mage looked up and nodded, a wry smile on his face.

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‘We have to stop the Wesmen,’ he gasped. ‘We can’t let them contact the Wytch Lords.’

‘We aren’t in a position to stop them right now,’ said Richmond.

‘Hirad’s hurt and we have to get to the barn.’

‘Where did they come from?’ asked Talan.

‘They must be camped near by. Watching the house on the orders of the Wytch Lords, no doubt.’ Richmond continued to scan the area into which the Wesmen had fled.

‘You took a risk there,’ said Ilkar, standing over the Dark Mage.

‘Justified, I think,’ said Denser, gesturing at the smouldering carcasses. ‘I’m learning to control it.’

‘So I see. Dangerous, though.’ Something caught Ilkar’s eye and he looked away.

‘And exhausting,’ said Denser. ‘I’m not even sure I can walk.’

‘Try,’ said Ilkar. ‘Try now.’ He could feel them all looking at him as he stared into the middle distance. ‘The dogs are coming back.’

‘Richmond, get the horses,’ ordered The Unknown. ‘Ilkar, see to Denser. Hirad, with me.’

Ilkar pulled Denser to his feet, the Dark Mage having to cling on to the elf’s cloak. With mounts spurred to a gallop, they began the race to the barn.

For Hirad, the ride was a blur of pain. He could feel the blood pouring from the wound in his back, soaking into his shirt and leather. With each stride, his energy ebbed as he thumped in his saddle, unable to maintain a riding rhythm. His eyes misted, his vision was ragged and he couldn’t properly see the way ahead. He was dimly aware of The Unknown moving close to him to hold him in his saddle. He didn’t even have the energy to indicate his thanks; it was all he could do to cling on to the reins.

Urgent orders were barked by The Unknown: the Destranas were catching them fast. They might just reach the barn before the animals overhauled them but it would be close. Richmond and Talan urged their mounts to greater effort towards the long low building. Hirad could feel his grip on consciousness slipping away.

He dragged his head to one side to see Denser hunched over his horse with Ilkar shepherding him all the way. The Dark Mage looked for all the world as if he was dead.

Mustering the last of his strength, Hirad dug his heels into his 129

mare’s flanks. The horse responded. The barn was only a hundred yards away. Richmond and Talan, having just reached it, pushed open a large door and slapped their horses inside. Moments later, The Unknown and Hirad thundered in and reined to a halt. The Unknown leapt from his saddle and Hirad slumped from his, legs folding, body sliding down the heaving flank of his horse.

‘Richmond, Talan, look after him,’ barked The Unknown.

He ran to the door and looked out. Denser and Ilkar were just yards away, the dogs almost on their heels, and rode past him into the barn. The Unknown moved a pace outside, pushed the barn door closed and slid the heavy wooden bolt home to lock it.

‘Unknown, what the hell are you doing?’ shouted Ilkar from inside the barn, pulling on the door, which gave only slightly.

‘Korina was the last time I fail to help my friends.’ The Destranas would be on him in a few heartbeats.

‘There’s no need, Unknown. They won’t hang around here for ever,’ said Talan. The banging on the door increased.

‘They will.’ Denser’s voice came laced with fatigue. ‘You don’t understand what they are. The door won’t hold them.’

‘He’ll die, you stupid bastard!’

The Unknown could hear the shouts of the barbarian as he squared up to the dogs. ‘We’ll see, Hirad. We’ll see.’

The huge dogs ate up the distance. One, a pale silver-grey, was slightly ahead of the other two, one of which was jet black, the other another shimmering shade of grey. The Unknown tapped the tip of his blade on the ground and breathed deep knowing his first strike was vital. With the front animal two paces away, he side-stepped and brought his sword through waist-high and rising, straight into the Destrana’s mouth.

Its neck snapped and its jaws splintered but its momentum brought it crashing into The Unknown’s shoulder. Man and beast fell against the door, the timbers groaned and The Unknown could hear someone kicking at the inside, then angry words.

Winded, the big warrior shovelled the dead animal from his legs and started to rise, but the others were on him so quickly. The grey one locked its jaws on to a shoulder plate, the other plucked at his helmet with a massive paw.

With a roar, The Unknown jabbed forwards one-handed and 130

sliced into the grey’s right hind leg. The limb collapsed but the mouth hung on, teeth crushing the metal plate ever further as hot breath fired into his face.

The unharmed dog clouted The Unknown’s head again and he could feel himself weakening. His helmet was dashed from his skull, strap biting deep as it snapped. He choked and swung his blade in desperation, feeling only hilt and glove contact flesh. Snatching it back again, he felt the metal plate on his shoulder give a little more as the crippled beast shook its head from side to side. Waves of pain washed over The Unknown and the black Destrana howled, sensing victory. The noise cleared his head for a moment and he drove his blade deep into the beast’s throat, its exultation drowning in a fountain of blood.

As the sound died away, the plate gave out and huge jaws closed on flesh and bone. The Unknown screamed in agony and his eyes dimmed. His blade was wrenched from his hand as the dog pulled him on to his back. He whipped his fist into its face time and again but the fangs held firm as his blood flowed into the dirt.

The dog pulled its head back and lashed in a claw. The Unknown’s throat was torn out, and as his strength drained away, his head fell back. With a crack of breaking wood, the barn door opened inwards and a blade flashed across his fading vision. There was the thud of a body beside him.

It was enough.

‘How dare you!’ Erienne flew at the Captain as he entered her room.

‘How dare you!’ He caught her easily by the arms and pushed her back towards the desk chair.

‘Calm yourself, Erienne. Everything is as it was,’ he said.

‘Three days,’ she grated, her eyes ablaze beneath her tangled dirty hair. ‘Three days you’ve denied me. How can you do it to them, never mind me?’

Since their last conversation, the Captain had been true to his word. She had spoken to no one but the guard who brought her food and water. At first it had been easy, her anger at his assumption that she would crumble burning in the pit of her stomach. She had occupied herself quoting lore, revising little-used spells – some of which she would dearly like to cast in the castle – and searching for 131

weaknesses she could exploit to get free of the Captain. But he had her children, he’d threatened quick death for any magic use and she had no doubt he would do exactly as he said.

Unless she could be in a position while she was with them to cast effectively, she couldn’t take the risk. But then there was the future, after he had no further need of her. Would he let them all go? Part of her wanted to believe that he wasn’t a murderer of innocents, that his intellect had a compassionate side, but that part was small.

Erienne knew in her heart that he had no intention of letting them leave the castle. He surely knew her sons had great potential power, and that power would scare him. And that left her having to prolong their lives in any way she knew how and hope that he would drop his guard even for a moment to give her the chance she wanted. Until he let the boys out of their room, that chance would never material-ise.

As the hours went by, her anger faded, to be replaced by the dread feeling of longing over which she had no control. She stopped being able to concentrate and the lore lessons were forgotten. Her heart pounded painfully in her breast and the tears were regular and prolonged as her happy memories of the boys gave way to nightmare visions of them cold and alone in a dusty room without anyone to protect them.

She knew the answer was simple. To see them was to call the guard and agree to help the Captain. But to help him was abhorrent to her every belief. And not only that. She believed him to be deeply misguided, and to lend assistance would place Balaia in greater danger than it appeared to be in already.

After two days, she couldn’t sleep, eat or wash, the longing was that great. All she could do was shuffle, head down, around the room, calling out their names and praying for their safe return to her. Her mind was full of them, her body racked with the need of them.

She called the Captain on the third day, when she feared she was losing her mind and when she was sure her boys would wither without her. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she wept tears through the dirt on her face. Her hair was lank and greasy, knotted and straggling over her scalp. Great dark circles under her eyes told 132

their own story about the state of her fatigue, and her nightdress was torn at one shoulder where she’d caught it on a loose nail.

‘You have denied yourself,’ said the Captain. ‘The answer was forever in your grasp.’

She was too tired to defend herself, slumping instead into the chair. ‘Let me see them,’ she said.

The Captain ignored her plea. ‘I assume you have some news for me.’

‘What do you want from me?’ she said, her voice thick with exhaustion.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good. I knew you’d see sense. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. First, I want you to get some proper rest, and I’m going to make it easy for you by promising that you will see your sons very soon. And I never go back on my promises, as you are aware. Then we will talk about your role in saving Balaia from this appalling creation of Dawnthief.’

‘I have to see them now,’ said Erienne.

The Captain knelt beside her and held up her face. She looked at him, his smile softening his features into fatherly concern.

‘Erienne, look at yourself. They will be frightened if they see you like this. You must sleep, then you must wash. Now come.’ He rose and helped her out of the chair and across to the bed, moving the blankets over her as she lay down, unprotesting. ‘I’ll stay with you until you sleep. And dream happy, because when you awaken, you will see Thom and Aron and realise they are well.’ He stroked her hair back from her face, and though she fought it, sleep took her in an iron grip and she slipped into a deep slumber.

The Captain turned to Isman and smiled broadly. ‘You see, Isman? Deprivation can get the results that violence does not.’ He stood. ‘Now, one more piece to the puzzle. Let’s go and talk about how we might catch our most valuable prize.’

Ilkar just stared while he tried to compose himself. The quiet hurt his ears. Talan had kneeled and closed The Unknown’s eyes, and now he, Richmond and Ilkar stood around the big man’s body as the wind ruffled his bloodied hair and blew in through the open door of the barn. Hirad, having decapitated the last dog, had walked back two steps and collapsed. Denser was tending him.

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Thoughts crashed through Ilkar’s head in a confused barrage but one kept rising to the surface of his mind. It was the view in front of him. The Unknown lying dead was a sight he had never believed he would see. And the idea that he would no longer be there to say the right words or make the correct decision to save them all was one that Ilkar was unable to take.

‘Why the hell did he do it?’ he asked.

Richmond shook his head; tears stood in his eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘We could have helped him. If he hadn’t locked the door, we . . . Why did he lock it?’

It was not a question Ilkar could answer. He dragged his attention to Hirad and caught Denser’s eye. The Dark Mage was worried.

‘Bad?’

Denser nodded. ‘Do you know WarmHeal?’

‘That bad, is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Denser. ‘He’s lost a great deal of blood. Well?’

‘I’ve never used it,’ said Ilkar.

‘I’m not asking you to use it. All I need you to do is to shape the mana flow for me – I don’t have the energy.’

‘You want me to channel mana for you,’ said Ilkar slowly. ‘How can you ask that of me?’

Denser scratched his head beneath his skull cap. ‘This isn’t the time to discuss morals and College co-operation.’

‘No?’

‘No!’ snapped Denser, standing and pointing down at the prost-rate Hirad. ‘I don’t think you quite understand. If we don’t do something now, he will die. Now you can either try it yourself, use your energy and probably screw up, or you can shape the mana for me and I’ll make it work. I’m good at it.’ He was standing very close to Ilkar, and the elf could feel the cat squirming in Denser’s cloak.

‘So which is it to be?’

Ilkar looked away, straight into the stern gazes of Talan and Richmond. He held out his hands.

‘You don’t understand,’ he said.

‘We understand that if you don’t do something, Hirad will die,’

said Richmond. ‘And we’ve just lost one, so stop talking ethics and get on with it.’

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Ilkar looked back to Denser and inclined his head. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Denser removed Hirad’s leather armour and shirt. The tear in his lower back was ugly, full of blood and over twelve inches long.

Denser probed the area around the gash and Hirad moaned his pain through his unconsciousness.

‘It’ll be infected,’ said Denser. ‘Destranas are never clean. Are you ready?’

Ilkar nodded. Kneeling, he placed his hands on Denser’s shoulders, index fingers on the base of his neck. He opened his mind to the mana, feeling a surge through his body before he began shaping the WarmHeal and channelling the energy through his hands. There was a jolt as Denser accepted the flow and something akin to pain as the two Colleges, Julatsa and Xetesk, met and melded. Focusing on the Dark Mage’s hands, Ilkar blotted out the barn around him and the ache growing in his head, seeing Denser’s gentle finger movements, hearing his quiet incantation and feeling the mana being dragged through him with greater force as the preparation climaxed.

He could feel himself beginning to weaken. Denser was hauling the stamina from him as he drew on the magical force with ever greater urgency. And then it was done, the flow shut off, the channel closed, and Denser’s hands were encased in a red-tinged golden glow. For Ilkar, the colour would have been a pure green, soft and pulsating but he couldn’t say that the feeling was any different than if the mage under his hands had been another Julatsan. Unable to move from his position, Ilkar watched as Denser moved his hands over the wound, his fingers kneading the skin and probing the torn flesh. Blood flowed briefly on to the floor of the barn, Denser breathed in slowly and, with his exhalation, the light dimmed and died.

Slowly, the rest of the world encroached once more on Ilkar’s mind. His heart was hammering in his chest and his arms trembled as he took them from Denser’s shoulders. The Dark Mage examined his work, then sat back on his haunches, turning to Ilkar and smiling.

‘That was a very interesting experience. We should research it further,’ he said.

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Ilkar wiped his sweat-slick forehead. ‘Don’t get carried away, Denser. I only did it to save Hirad.’

‘And save him we have,’ said Denser. ‘I’m sorry you feel the way you do. We should be learning from each other, not squabbling.’

Ilkar gave a short laugh. ‘And there speaks a man who would have Dawnthief for himself and his College.’

Both stood up, brushing dust from their clothing.

‘And you wouldn’t?’ Denser felt in a pocket for his pipe. ‘Julatsa sets itself on a pedestal and asks to be knocked down. For one thing, you know you cannot cast Dawnthief with any hope of success, and for another, you refuse our constant hand of friendship and reason.’

Ilkar felt as if all the breath had been knocked from him. He could feel his ears redden and the blood flowed into his face with equal force.

‘Reason? Xetesk? Denser, the last time I saw a Xetesk mage, she was fighting for Erskan’s Merchant Lords and killing people using MindMelt. That’s not reason.’

Denser merely tamped tobacco into his pipe bowl and lit the weed with a flame from his thumb.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You have never killed anyone in your work with The Raven.’

‘That is completely different.’

‘Is it? Your killing spells stink of righteousness and that makes them all right, I suppose.’ There was a sneer on Denser’s face. ‘You are a mercenary mage, Ilkar. Your moral is money and your code is that of The Raven. Forget my allegiance; my deeds are no worse than yours. In Julatsa you see yourselves as the white knights of magic, and yet, individually at least, you are no higher than any College’s mage. We should have stayed talking to Lystern and Dordover.’

‘You say that and yet you thrive on blood and the chaos in dimensional space. Your College has consistently ignored pleas to moderate and that’s why Black Wings hunt you. And me. I—’

‘For God’s sake, will you two shut up? I’m trying to rest.’ That voice drained the anger from Ilkar and he smiled. So did Denser.

‘Ah, Hirad, you’ll never know the angst that brought about your salvation,’ said the Dark Mage.

Ilkar found it hard to suppress a chuckle. He looked down and the 136

humour died on his face. Hirad’s eyes were black-rimmed and sunken, and his expression spoke everything of recent events.

‘I heard you,’ said the barbarian. ‘We’d better bury The Unknown. I understand that a WarmHeal surge doesn’t last for long.’

He scrambled to his feet.

Denser nodded. ‘You’ll be asleep in less than an hour.’

Talan retrieved a shovel from his pack. ‘I’ll dig. Richmond can dress the body. We’ll observe the Vigil in the morning.’

Ilkar nodded his thanks. He was more tired than he cared to admit. The exertion of the WarmHeal was weighing on his mind as much as on his body. In saving Hirad, he’d committed a crime against the Julatsan way that would see him shunned by his brothers. He shuddered. At least none of them was ever likely to find out.

Hirad squatted outside the barn by the mound of earth that covered The Unknown. His sword was drawn and held in his hands, point driven into the ground and hilt by his face. His sorrow wasn’t as keen as that he had felt for the loss of Sirendor, but something lurked in the back of his mind that his exhausted body couldn’t register. He felt empty and useless. Again. It was a feeling he was becoming too familiar with. His eyes smarted and he turned them to the darkening heavens, as the mist that had bothered their journey all day deepened and stole the stars from the sky.

They were all asleep. Richmond and Talan had taken the early watches and snored in unison, lying on their backs on either side of the barn. Ilkar, his energy gone, was stretched on a patch of loose earth, his hands thrust deep in the soil, replenishing his mana stamina slowly as he slept. Denser smiled. If only he knew how easy it was. All you needed was peace and a victim or a prayer and an opening.

Finally, his eyes came to rest on Hirad, sleeping so deeply his breath hardly registered. He had been lucky. For all his confidence, Denser had no idea whether Julatsan-shaped WarmHeal mana would mean anything to him, or whether Ilkar’s reluctance to channel the mana would affect the flow. It was a sudden source of interest to Denser that, give or take the odd spike, the WarmHeal 137

shapes of the two opposed Colleges were identical. Again the smile.

He wondered if Ilkar would ever open his eyes to the truth his Masters had buried from him and all of his brothers.

One magic. One mage.

Denser was sitting close to the door, listening to the wind rattling the sparse brush against the base of the barn. He filled his pipe from his belt pouch, frowning as he felt around the dwindling supply.

‘Hmm.’ He lit the pipe, letting the flame he produced on his fingers warm his face for a moment. Within his cloak, his Familiar shifted, its head nestling against his stomach.

Outside, there was another sound; a whispering on the wind.

Something gliding. It was a sound Denser knew very well, as did the Familiar, who poked its head from his cloak to look at him, nose and whiskers twitching, ears pricked.

The whispering came closer, the gliding changed to an idle flap and there was a landing just to the right of the barn door. Claws scrabbled briefly at the earth, the wings flapped again and the whispering became distant and was gone.

Denser and the cat stared deeply into each other’s eyes.

‘Well, well, well,’ said the Dark Mage. ‘That’s why you did it. You knew they were coming.’ He shook his head. ‘And I never suspected a thing.’

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Chapter 10

Hirad awoke to sounds of movement and organisation. As he opened his eyes, he could hear Ilkar demanding someone ready the horses, while the crackle and smell of a fire told of Richmond preparing a meal. Light streamed in through the barn’s open door and any remaining shadows were crisscrossed with light that shone through gaps in the planking. Hirad shifted. He felt a dull ache in his back but the pain he remembered had gone.

‘Good morning, Hirad.’

Hirad turned his head and pushed himself up on his elbows.

‘Bugger me, Talan, but I pity the woman who wakes up staring at you.’ He offered an arm and Talan hauled him to his feet. Once up, a look around the barn brought reality back with unpleasant force.

There weren’t enough of them. No way. The gap left by The Unknown was enormous. Unbridgeable. Hirad felt his heart thumping in his throat, and his eyes swept the barn once more as if he’d somehow missed the big man, sitting on a bale of straw behind the horses perhaps. His eyes pricked and he set off for the door to give himself the confirmation he had to have.

Sure enough, the grave was there, and by it, Denser and the cat, the mage staring at the low mound of earth in a kind of sombre surprise. As Hirad watched, he shook his head slowly.

‘I know how you feel,’ said the barbarian.

Denser smiled thinly. ‘Probably not.’

‘What’s causing all this?’ Hirad waved an arm at the view in front of them. The air was no clearer than on the previous day. Despite the sun riding into the sky unchallenged by cloud, Septern’s estate shimmered in a light mist, keeping anything further than thirty-odd yards away just out of plain focus. At least today there were no dark shapes moving against the horizon. Not yet, anyway.

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‘I think it’s either another after-effect of all the spell casting around the house, or the rip is causing eddies in the atmosphere.

We don’t know how dimensions interact but it may be that they can’t mix.’ He glanced back down at The Unknown’s grave.

‘Perhaps we should talk.’

‘Yes, I think we should. We’re in trouble.’

Denser indicated they walk away from the barn, and the two men moved off together in the direction of the house.

‘I’m not—’

‘I think—’

A brief pause. Denser gestured for Hirad to speak.

‘We’ve got to take stock,’ he said. ‘The Raven isn’t used to its people dying. Not for years.’

‘I appreciate that,’ said Denser. ‘And I know we didn’t start off right—’

Hirad laughed, a contemptuous sound.

‘I’ll say we didn’t.’ His voice was low and cold. ‘First of all, your damned secrecy about what you involved us in almost killed me and ended in the death of my best friend. Then, because of that, we end up in this nightmare country and the second of my friends dies. To save you.’ Denser opened his mouth to speak but Hirad glared him down. ‘Your life is forfeit and I want you to know that the only reason you aren’t dead is that Ilkar seems to believe you are the only chance Balaia has got.’

The wind gusted, picking at Denser’s cloak. The cat’s ears appeared briefly at his neck line, twitched and withdrew. The mage pulled his pipe from a pocket, made to put it in his mouth and decided against it.

‘That’s all I really need to know. You of all The Raven have to believe in me even if you hate me for what has happened.’

‘I didn’t say I believed in you. I said Ilkar did, and that’s good enough for me.’ Hirad looked into Denser’s face, seeing a frown developing as his words sank in. ‘You just don’t get it, do you? It really doesn’t matter what I believe. Ilkar says this is important. The Unknown thought so too, and that means The Raven is with you.

That’s why we’re so good. It’s called trust.’

‘And now there’s a problem.’

‘Well spotted, Denser. Yes, there is. Your lies and our haste led to 140

The Raven’s heart being torn out.’ He took a pace forwards, threatening. Denser was unmoved. ‘The centre of The Raven. Me, Ilkar, Sirendor and the big man. We’ve been fighting together for more than ten years. We meet you and in less than one week two of us are dead. Dead.’ Hirad dropped his head and sucked his bottom lip as images of Sirendor crowded his mind.

‘We can still do this without them,’ said Denser. ‘We have to.’

‘Yeah? Did you somehow miss what happened yesterday? The Unknown took out five of those dogs on his own. Who do you think’s going to do it next time?’

‘Well, there’s you standing in front of me and two other good swordsmen in the barn. The only reason we believed we had a chance of recovering Dawnthief was that The Raven would be involved.’

‘And you’ve killed two of us already!’ said Hirad. ‘Gods, Denser, there just aren’t enough of us now. And none of us who’s left was ever as good as The Unknown. Or Sirendor.’

‘But that doesn’t—’

‘Listen to me!’ Hirad breathed deeply. ‘We cannot face another attack like yesterday.’

Denser nodded. He filled the bowl of his pipe and tamped the tobacco down. A muttered word and a flame appeared around the mage’s index finger. He lit the pipe.

‘I’ve considered this, believe me. And like you say, we have to take stock. Depending on how wide our search is for the components will decide how it’s going to go from here. That’s all I ask right now

– that we go to the house, find the information we need, assuming it’s there, then all sit down and talk it through.’ He paused. ‘Now those Wesmen have got away from us, they’ll report to Parve. The Gods knows what that will lead to.’

‘Why were they here?’

‘Because the Wytch Lords will have always assumed that here was the key to Dawnthief. You have to stay with me, Hirad, whatever you think of me. This is too important for the whole of Balaia.’

‘So you keep saying,’ said Hirad. ‘But first we have a Vigil to observe. Then we’ll sort out this house and see where we are.’ He turned and walked back to the barn, Denser following a few paces behind.

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The Dark Mage was invited to stay inside the barn while The Raven conducted a shorter Vigil than The Unknown deserved. It was a tradition as old as mercenary camaraderie, but this time reverence had to be tempered with the reality of the situation in which they found themselves; and it was for the same reason that they all left the barn and rode the short distance to the house soon after, instead of walking. Should the Wesmen come back, having the horses even as far away as the barn could prove fatal.

The once grand structure lay in almost complete ruin. Blackened stone and scorched wood were scattered around a central hub of collapsed walls, with the odd splash of colour from ancient furnishings somehow surviving.

The house was maybe two hundred feet on its longest side, and had a main entrance that was still just about discernible. Part of a stone archway leant at a crazy angle above a shattered stairway, and next to it the mangled remains of a window frame clung desperately to the vertical, a shred of material flapping in the breeze, stuck on a nail.

Hirad dismounted, the others following suit. Denser led the horses to a fallen tree some yards away, then returned to stand by Ilkar. Both stared at the destruction, concern plain on their faces.

‘What’s up?’ asked Hirad. ‘Someone burned his house down. So what?’

‘That’s the problem. You don’t just burn down a mage’s house,’

said Ilkar. ‘They’re too well protected. The power needed to do this—’ he gestured at the ruin – ‘is enormous.’

‘Is it?’ Hirad turned to Denser. ‘Still think we can do it?’ The Dark Mage raised his eyebrows. ‘So who did it? The Wytch Lords?’

‘Almost certainly,’ said Denser. ‘They would have known the extent of Septern’s research into Dawnthief just as we did. He obviously vanished before they got to him.’

‘Not happy, were they?’ Talan kicked at a piece of rubble.

‘Nor would you be. If they’d got hold of Dawnthief, it would all be over by now.’ It was Denser’s turn to look at Hirad. ‘That is why it’s so important we succeed. We must believe we can, and we must do it.’

‘Don’t lecture me, Denser,’ said Hirad. ‘Let’s get inside . . . well, you know, in.’ He pointed through what was left of the arch.

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‘What are we looking for in there?’ asked Richmond.

‘If we’ve read the amulet correctly, the entrance to the workshop is through the floor, and Ilkar is going to have to divine the way through it,’ said Denser.

‘Why Ilkar?’ Talan frowned.

‘There’s Julatsan code on the amulet. Septern wanted it to be as hard as possible for mages to find his workshop, it seems.’

‘More than that,’ said Ilkar. ‘If it was going to be found, he wanted more than just Xetesk represented.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not getting this,’ said Talan. ‘What College was Septern?’

‘Dordover,’ replied Denser. ‘And most of the code on there is Dordovan, but Xetesk could read that easily enough. What we couldn’t read was a passage concerning the opening of the door to the workshop, because it was based in the lore of Julatsa.’ Denser shrugged. ‘We could never read it even if a Julatsan mage told us how.’

‘So how did he write it?’

‘That, Richmond, is a good question. And I don’t know the answer. He may have worked with a Julatsan, but Ilkar’ll tell you that’s impossible.’

‘Not impossible. Just extremely unlikely. Shall we?’ Ilkar led the way over the crumbling rubble, leaping up the steps to the steadier ground on which the arch stood. He turned round. ‘Aren’t you coming in, Talan?’

‘Not yet. I think someone should keep a look-out, don’t you?’

‘Good idea.’ Ilkar moved gingerly into what was left of the mansion. Devastated stonework lay in chips, covering the cracked stone floor and making walking tricky. Nothing much else was left.

The wall by a fireplace had survived to three feet, and beneath the flame marks, a pale blue was just visible. As for the furnishings, a few pieces of scattered wood and iron, the odd strip of deep green upholstery and the oval of a table top were all that remained.

Denser set about sweeping the stone dust and chips from the floor with his boot and gestured that he could do with some help. The floor itself was cracked in many places, particularly where it joined the walls. The central portion was scored and darkened but otherwise unscathed for an area covering maybe thirty square feet.

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The Dark Mage fished out the amulet, his cat treading gingerly down his cloak as he did so. It padded about the floor, sniffing close, its ears and eyes alert. Denser clacked his tongue, took the amulet from its chain and walked into the middle of the cleared area.

‘As obvious as this may seem, the way into the workshop is right in the centre here.’ He knelt on the ground and brushed at it with his free hand. ‘Ilkar, it’s your turn.’ He held the amulet up to the elf, who took it with reverential care and stared at it at length before turning it over in his hands to stare again at the other side.

‘I should have looked at it closer the first time, shouldn’t I?’ he said.

‘I was praying you wouldn’t,’ said Denser.

‘Mean anything to you?’ asked Hirad at his shoulder.

Ilkar glanced round. ‘Not much of it, no. This bit, though—’ he pointed with his little finger to an arc of symbols which ran around an inner ring near the hub of the amulet – ‘that’s Julatsan, although the lore is very old. The style, I mean.’

‘Of course,’ said Hirad.

Ilkar chuckled and patted Hirad on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry.

Look, here’s a very brief lesson. College lore is something that is passed down through the College over generations. It’s not something you can learn like you can the words of a spell. You have to, I don’t know, assimilate it over years, I suppose. That’s why Xetesk couldn’t read this. It’s Julatsan lore code.’ He stopped.

‘Go on. I think I’m there,’ said Hirad. ‘What does this lore do, then?’

‘Well, it doesn’t do much in the sense you mean. It’s a way of storing College memories. In simple terms, the lore I know teaches me how to shape mana for the spells I use, although it’s actually much more complex than that. And if I can work out the code on this amulet, it’ll tell me how to divine what it is that operates the entrance to Septern’s workshop. Or at least, that’s the theory.’

Hirad studied Ilkar’s earnest face, the elf’s sharply tapering eyebrows angled down between his eyes so that they almost met at his nose. He smiled.

‘Thank you for that, Ilkar. I suppose you’d best get on with it.’

Ilkar nodded and walked to the centre of the room, sitting where Denser indicated he thought the entrance to be. Hirad moved to sit 144

in the rubble, where he could watch Ilkar’s face. It struck him again that for all the years they’d known each other, he’d never taken any interest in magic at all. How it worked, who was who, what you had to do. Nothing. Hardly surprising really, he reflected. Magic was Ilkar’s job. Hirad could never perform it, so he’d never bothered to look into it.

Sitting cross-legged, Ilkar held the amulet on his open palms, examining it intently, occasionally mouthing words. He was breathing slowly and deeply, and when he closed his eyes, his chest continued to move, somewhat to Hirad’s surprise.

Hirad glanced at Denser, who was also studying Ilkar, right hand absently scratching the cat’s chin, unlit pipe clamped between his teeth. There was a half-smile on his face and fascination in his eyes.

Ilkar was searching for something, that much was apparent. His head was sweeping the area immediately in front of him, his eyes roving behind closed lids. Hirad frowned and shifted, his mouth turning up at one corner, dimpling his cheek. He found the sight unnerving.

Ilkar licked his lips and started probing the floor with his fingers, amulet now in his lap. Suddenly, his sightless eyes shifted to his right to where Denser was standing. The Dark Mage flinched reflexively.

Ilkar kept staring, unmoving, for fully half a minute.

He opened his eyes. ‘Got it,’ he said.

‘Excellent.’ Denser’s smile broadened.

Ilkar got to slightly unsteady feet and walked over to the Dark Mage. Hirad stepped over to examine the floor where Ilkar had been probing. To him it was just hard and cold.

‘It’s a control spell. Dordovan, I think. I’ll try it, it should be simple enough.’ Ilkar looked again at the amulet, turned it over and mouthed a few words. He glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hirad, I would advise you to move a couple of paces backwards.’ The barbarian shrugged and did so.

Ilkar placed a palm on either side of the amulet, closed his eyes and muttered a brief incantation. There was a momentary hiss of escaping air from a seal, and an entire slab of stone disappeared from where Hirad had been standing.

‘All right, Ilkar, I’m impressed,’ said Hirad.

‘Thank you, Hirad.’

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‘Me too,’ said Denser, moving to the hole Ilkar had made.

‘Dimensional transference. No wonder the Wytch Lords never found the way in.’

He was joined by Hirad. ‘They don’t make doors like that now-adays, eh?’

‘Hirad, nobody ever made them like that. Except Septern, it seems.’

They could see nothing down the hole. The first few steps of a flight led into the darkness, and there was an impression of size, but that was it. Hirad called to Talan to bring in two lanterns, and with them lit, he moved cautiously down the stairs, unsheathed sword in one hand, lantern in the other.

The air was musty and smelt of age, and Hirad could see he was descending into a chamber almost the same size as the room above it. All but covering the wall directly opposite him was a moving dark.

Swirls of deep greys, flecked with brown, green and the odd flash of white, poured over each other, going nowhere. The dark roiled and swam within its frame, alien and menacing, its silence adding to its threat. The room held an air of expectancy and Hirad couldn’t shift the sensation that the swirls would snatch out to grab him and pull him into nowhere. The thought made him shudder. He stopped and felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘It’s the dimensional rip. Nothing to worry about,’ said Denser.

‘Can’t things come through, you know, from the other side?’

Hirad wafted his sword in the direction of the rip.

‘No. Septern stabilised it using his magic and lore. You have to start this side to get back to this side.’

Hirad nodded and moved on down, only half convinced by Denser’s reply. The rip was compelling. It gave an aura of impenetrable depth but Hirad could see its edge and it seemed to hang on the wall like a picture, less than a hand’s width thick.

All around was the debris of a life. To his left as he descended was a table covered in papers, and near it, another scattered with implements, flasks and powders. A chest was lodged against the right wall. A layer of dust faded sharp outlines and at the bottom of the stairs was the answer to a riddle.

‘Septern,’ said Hirad.

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‘Undoubtedly.’ Denser moved past the barbarian to examine the body. ‘Three hundred years and he could have died yesterday.’

The body, head forward, eyes closed, dark hair thinning and close-cropped, was crumpled against a wall in a half-slouch, hands partially covering a bloodied tear in an otherwise white shirt. As the lantern-light swept away the shadows, it revealed a large, dark and dusty stain on the flagstones.

Denser looked up at Hirad. ‘Think how close they came to ultimate victory. Septern escaping down here saved everyone. I wonder if he knew that?’ He moved to the paper-strewn table, sat in a chair and began to leaf through the mass of documents.

Hirad moved off the stairs and was followed into the workshop by Ilkar, Talan and Richmond. The elf repeated his earlier spell and the hole closed above them.

‘Ilkar?’

‘Yes, Hirad?’

‘If you’ve got the amulet there and you need it to open and close the door, how did he do it?’

The mage straightened. ‘Good question. Any ideas, Denser?’

Denser, who had just uncovered a leather-bound book, turned. ‘I don’t know, what did you do?’

‘It’s similar to a FlamePalm but you have to be holding the amulet so that the flame is directed straight into it.’

‘Whatever the amulet’s made of will be the catalyst, then. Have you checked his neck?’

‘His neck?’ Ilkar’s scowl was momentary. ‘Oh, I see.’ He bent to Septern and put his hand inside the dead man’s collar. Hirad could see the shudder from where he was standing.

‘Feel good, Ilkar?’

‘Clammy and cold, Hirad. Waxy too. Really, really unpleasant. He is wearing a chain, though.’ Ilkar took the chain over Septern’s head and nodded as he looked at the blood-stained copy amulet hanging from it. ‘The faces are largely blank, it’s just the edging that has the same design.’

‘Good,’ said Denser. ‘I wouldn’t like to think he’d made several copies of the way in here.’ He went back to his reading.

Hirad turned his attention to Talan and Richmond who had been poking idly at the glassware on one of the tables but had now begun 147

to examine the chest. Ilkar came to his side, wiping his hands down his armour.

‘What do you think of this?’ He pointed at the rip, its gentle swirling still slow and rhythmic.

‘It gives me the shivers. I wonder what’s on the other side.’

‘Well,’ said Ilkar, ‘I have a strong feeling that you’ll be finding out.’

‘No question of it,’ said Denser. ‘There’s some incredible stuff in here.’ He tapped the book. ‘It’ll bring dimensional research on hundreds of years. And it answers a few other questions too.’ He stood up and walked over to Ilkar, handing him the book and indicating a passage. ‘Read it out, will you? I’ve got to try something.

Have you got any rope, Talan?’

‘Outside.’ Talan was gazing at the rip, Richmond at his shoulder.

Eventually he turned to find Denser looking at him. ‘Do you want some?’

‘No, I was just passing the time.’

‘Well, I’m not a bloody mind-reader, Denser.’

‘No, you’d need a mind for that,’ muttered the Dark Mage. ‘Just get the rope, will you?’

Talan strode towards him. ‘In charge now, are you? Tell you what, go and get it yourself, or have you lost the power of movement?’

‘I only want some rope, Talan,’ said Denser. ‘I’m not asking you to open the gates of hell or anything.’

‘It’s on my horse if you want it.’ Talan turned and stalked to the other end of the rip and took up his gazing again.

‘Gods alive,’ said Denser. ‘FlamePalm, you say?’

Ilkar nodded and tossed him the original amulet. ‘Just leave out the command word and substitute whatever it is you say for mana-meld.’

Denser followed the Julatsan’s instructions, and soon wan daylight appeared above them.

‘I won’t be long.’ Denser trotted up the steps.

‘Are you going to read that book, or keep it to yourself?’ asked Hirad.

‘Sorry,’ said Ilkar. ‘Do you two want to hear this?’

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Richmond shrugged and walked over, Talan glowered at Ilkar then did likewise.

‘It’s a diary of sorts. A research log as well, though I won’t go into that. Listen to this:

‘It is only four days since I revealed my creation of Dawnthief and already the Wytch Lords are searching for me. I can feel the shock waves through the mana even here. I cannot leave this house and I am left hoping that the four Colleges will defeat the evil from the Torn Wastes, for the spell I created to destroy them myself I cannot unleash on Balaia. It was folly to tell the Colleges of my discovery. I have since found that Dawnthief is infinitely more powerful than I had imagined. While it would be an unstable spell to work, should it be cast with the right preparation, concentration and, of course, catalysts, it could plunge Balaia into eternal night. It would mean the end of everything.

‘But I also find I cannot destroy the knowledge I have unearthed. Is that terrible when that knowledge could obliterate us all? I don’t think so – you can never hope to unmake what has been made. So I have taken the information containing the names of the catalysts through the rip and into a place where those who guard it have sworn to do so though death take the breath from their bodies and the flesh from their bones.

‘The key amulet has been left with the Brood Kaan in the Dragon dimension and they of all creatures know the price of Dawnthief falling into the wrong hands. Perhaps some day they will give the key back and this journal will be found and my actions understood. For myself, having hidden what had to be hidden, I must destroy the rip, closing the door for ever. To do so, I must remain on this side and will take my own life. No one must find Dawnthief. No one.’

The next page was blank.

Ilkar looked up from his reading, finding all eyes on him. Above them, Denser came back down the stairs, took the amulet from Ilkar and closed the slab once again.

‘So what happened?’ asked Hirad, indicating Septern’s body. ‘He didn’t kill himself, that much is obvious. And he didn’t destroy the rip either.’

Ilkar shrugged. ‘Well, it looks to me as though the Wytch Lords got to him earlier than he expected. Like Denser said, he saved Balaia by getting down here before he died.’

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‘And we’re about to do what he feared most,’ said Denser. ‘We’re going to get that information. Now then.’ Denser walked over to the closed chest, slapped open the clasps and opened the lid, finding clothes, boots and a pair of lanterns inside. He turned to the others.

‘A going-away chest, if I’m not very much mistaken.’

‘What is it you’re going to do, Denser?’ asked Hirad.

‘A little test of what exactly is behind the rip, that’s what.’ He closed and clasped the chest again. Taking the coil of rope from his shoulder, he quickly bound the chest with it, leaving a length of perhaps twenty feet in his hands.

‘Hirad, would you?’ asked Denser, pointing at the chest.

Hirad frowned but walked over to the Dark Mage.

‘What do you want?’

‘Pick up the chest and throw it through the rip, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, I see. Good idea.’ He knelt and wrapped his arms around the chest, picked it up and took a couple of paces backwards. ‘Anywhere in particular?’

‘In the centre, I think.’

Hirad nodded and moved to the middle of the rip. He hefted the trunk so that his hands were beneath it and it rested on his chest. A couple of bounces and he threw it straight into the rip, where it disappeared as if swallowed by thick mud.

All eyes switched to the rope as it moved gently through Denser’s hands. After no more than ten seconds, the rope gathered speed briefly, dipped, fell to the bottom of the rip and went slack.

‘I see,’ said Denser.

‘I wish I did,’ muttered Hirad.

‘It’s quite easy. The rip itself is quite deep, maybe six feet, and travel through it is slow. Just beyond the rip is a short drop which we’ll have to be ready for.’ He paused. ‘Now then, who’s for a journey into the absolute unknown?’

Silence. And it had an odd quality about it. Hirad considered that they had always known they’d have to go through the dark swirling mass, but now the time had arrived, they were all thinking about what might actually be on the other side. Whatever it was, it was unlikely to be much like anything they had ever experienced.

‘Well, we don’t need to leave a guard, do we?’ said Richmond.

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‘That we don’t,’ said Ilkar. ‘What do you reckon, Hirad, The Raven’s strangest ride?’

Hirad chuckled. ‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’ He clapped his hands together and drew his sword. ‘Lanterns, I think.’

‘Definitely,’ said Ilkar, picking up the one Denser had left on the table.

They lined up in front of the rip, each man staring deep into the gently moving picture in front of him. Hirad looked down the line one way then the other from his position in its centre. He breathed deeply, his heart rate leaping.

‘Ready, everyone?’ he asked. There were nods and murmurs of assent.

‘Hirad, I think you have the honour of the cry,’ said Talan.

‘Thank you, Talan.’

‘What’s this?’ asked Denser.

‘Just listen,’ said Ilkar.

Hirad drew in another huge breath. ‘Raven!’ he roared. ‘Raven with me!’

They hit the rip at a dead run.

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Chapter 11

Styliann warmed his feet by the fire in his study and took tea from the mug on the table by his right arm. There was a knock at the door.

‘Come.’

Nyer and Dystran entered. He gestured them to the other chairs and poured them each a mug of tea. Nyer settled into his seat with the ease of one well used to such company. For Dystran, a man barely into his forties, the nervousness was apparent and he sat forwards in his chair, clutching his mug tight.

‘Is Laryon on his way?’

‘Regretfully not,’ said Nyer. ‘He has encountered a problem with certain of his staff.’

‘I see.’ Styliann’s eyes narrowed. People didn’t usually pass up one of his invitations. He made a note to speak with the Master presently. ‘Now, Dystran, the DimensionConnect research, it is in an advanced state, I trust?’

Dystran looked to Nyer, who gestured him to speak.

‘Yes, my Lord. We are testing in the catacombs.’ He smiled before he could help himself.

‘Something amuses you?’

‘Sorry, my Lord.’ Dystran’s cheeks suddenly glowed red beneath his short brown hair. ‘It is just that we had to improve drainage rather urgently after the initial, highly successful test.’

Styliann raised his eyebrows.

‘Keep to the report,’ said Nyer.

Dystran nodded. ‘We have made three successful tests of the DimensionConnect spell, linking our dimension with that of another. Having made the correct calculations, we were able to steer a 152

course of water between the two, unfortunately flooding one spell chamber.’

‘Excellent,’ said Styliann. ‘How long before we are ready for a live test?’

‘Any time,’ said Dystran. ‘The only question remaining is one of mage linkage. We assume that the more mages casting, the wider the channel. However, there are risks involved.’ He paused. ‘Finally, dimensions are not always in alignment, and although we can cal-culate when they will be, we have no control over exactly when it is possible to cast.’

Styliann frowned. ‘What are the alignment windows?’

‘Between several hours and several days. We are still searching for a pattern.’

The Lord of the Mount nodded. ‘That will do. Dystran, I need you to bring your team of mages up to speed for a large-scale live test. How many do you have?’

‘Thirty,’ said the mage.

‘Your view, my old friend?’ asked Styliann.

‘It is the ideal offensive weapon for the pass,’ said Nyer.

‘Naturally.’ Styliann smiled. The door to victory opened once again.

Later, Styliann held communion with Laryon and what he heard took the smile from his face. It was sad when old friends began playing power games with him. It made him angry.

Flesh was being sucked from his bones. Blood was pouring into the skin of his face. He could feel it swell until his cheeks burned with pain, and then swell yet more. Hirad’s hands tightened reflexively, right hand attempting to crush the hilt of his sword. Eyes open, unclosable, seeing nothing but blackness mottled with grey. If he could have turned his head he was sure that he wouldn’t have been able to see any of the others. Were they even there?

He could hear no sound but for the blood thrashing through his veins and his brain shouting at him to make sense of it all. Was he walking? He thought not, but he was certainly moving. Where didn’t matter. He just wanted it to stop before the flesh was torn from his body and his blood surged into the void. Even then, he found himself thinking that he would still be moving. He felt a 153

pulsing spread through his body. It began in the pit of his stomach and moved swiftly to enmesh his entire being. It was hot. Very hot.

The blood felt as if it would boil his veins, melting them away.

Light.

The end of eternity.

A fall. Hard ground. A dimming of the light.

Hirad was sitting in an open space and it felt high up. No reason for that. It just felt that way. He looked left and right, counting the rest of The Raven off in his head. They were all there, all sitting, all looking at each other. Behind them, the rip hung in the air a couple of feet from the ground. The end of the rope that bound the chest hung in a slight bow. Hirad tracked it to the chest, which was lying on its side next to Ilkar. And behind the rip, a sheer drop into nothing.

Hirad stood up on juddering legs, quickly subsiding to calm, and drank in his first sight of another dimension. With the blood settling back to a normal pace through his veins, he felt the hairs all over his body stand as he breathed. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this. The air tasted different, dry and tinny, and the whole atmosphere was strange and cloying, slightly irritating to the skin and eyes.

The sky above them was dark, filled with cloud boiling across the sky, though he could feel only a light breeze on his face. He could see no break in the cover yet a half-light spread from the horizon where the black of the cloud met the black of the land.

And they were standing very high up. The feeling was confirmed by simply looking down a few feet behind and to his right. The rip was positioned at the very edge of the plateau on which they had landed and the drop was sheer immediately to both sides. Lightning, red and harsh, flared and sheeted across the land, illuminating nothing, only reinforcing the impenetrable dark. Almost as one, The Raven paced further from the edge, each man noting the small margin for error when they made to return to their own dimension.

But he knew what it lacked. Sound. Apart from the breeze sighing in his ears, he could hear nothing at all. No voices, no animals, no birds. No sound of any life whatever. Even the lightning behind them was silent. It made him uneasy. It was like standing in the land of the dead.

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Hirad tracked the land to his left until his line was broken by a building. Of sorts, anyway. Gazing straight ahead across the open ground – and it was ground; soil and vegetation ruffling in the gentle wind – he saw a jumble of ramshackle structures. Broken timbers, crumbled stone and cracked slate littered the area and he could see the dereliction stretching away for what had to be five or six hundred yards until it stopped abruptly, presumably at the farther edge of the plateau.

Beyond that, another rip hung in space. And as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see all around them, but scattered distantly, rough columns of rock which expanded at their heads to form more plateaux, disc- and oval-shaped. Clearly, they were on a similar structure and the realisation unbalanced him briefly. He thought he could just make out more buildings on the other discs, some towering like palaces. But no more light. Nothing moved but that under the sway of the breeze.

‘Nice place,’ muttered Talan, his voice sounding loud in the quiet.

Hirad started. ‘Gods in the ground, what is this place?’ The barbarian wished fervently The Unknown were there. It would have calmed him just a little.

‘It doesn’t make sense to my mind,’ said Denser. ‘How did they come to be up here, and how do they get from this platform to any of the others, and how do they get these buildings up here . . . ?’

His voice trailed away, his hand still pointing vaguely in the direction of the derelict village on the platform, if that was what it was.

‘And who were they?’ asked Ilkar.

‘That’s assuming they’ve all gone,’ said Talan.

‘You’ve all thought that far, have you?’ asked Hirad. ‘Personally, I’m still debating jumping straight back. This place makes my skin crawl.’ He could feel his heart beating fast again.

‘But isn’t it fascinating?’ said Denser. ‘This is another dimension.

Think what that means.’

‘Yeah,’ said Hirad. ‘It’s totally different, it makes me feel bad and I get the feeling we shouldn’t be standing here.’

‘Different but in so many respects the same,’ said Ilkar. He bent down and grabbed a handful of earth. ‘Look. Soil, grass, buildings . . . air.’

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‘But no noise. Do you think they’re all dead, whoever they are?’

Denser started walking towards the remains of the settlement.

Reluctantly, Hirad followed with the rest of The Raven, chewing his lip, the sword in his hand providing no comfort whatever. The place was oppressive despite the lightness of the air, and the lack of noise made him dig repeatedly in his ears with the forefinger of his left hand, searching for the reason why he couldn’t hear anything other than the sound of their feet and breathing.

‘What is it we’re looking for, Denser?’ Richmond turned to the Dark Mage as they tramped across the dry earth, its crumbling texture crunching underfoot.

‘I haven’t a clue, to be honest. It’s information we need, not pieces of this, that or the other, if you see what I mean.’

‘So, some parchment, maybe?’ suggested Richmond.

Denser shrugged. ‘Maybe. Or another amulet. Perhaps even some sort of carved jewellery. Whatever, it ought to stand out amongst all the rubbish over there. It’ll be Balaian, of that I’m sure.’ He gestured again at the buildings. Collapsed though they largely were, it was plain that their design bore only nodding acquaintance to anything the races of Balaia might build. Many had openings that were probably doors. But they were oval and did not sit flush with the ground. And of those that were still partially roofed, all had a similar oval opening towards the apex of the domed structure.

In a way, they reminded Hirad of kilns, though they were wood and stone, not shaped stone like the Wesmen built. They were, or would have been, tall, each maybe twenty or more feet high. For a single-storey structure, that seemed high, although the absence of anything recognisable as a window meant he could be mistaken.

There were other levels inside.

‘I don’t like this,’ said Hirad. He shivered.

‘So you’ve said, but I agree,’ said Ilkar. ‘It’s not right. I feel as if I might fall any moment.’

‘The less time I spend here the better.’ Hirad shook his shoulders to relieve sudden tension. ‘What the hell could Septern have wanted to come here for?’

A sheet of lightning flooded the night below the platform, illuminating everything it touched with a momentary mauve radiance. Shadows were plunged into even sharper relief and the 156

after-effect lingered in Hirad’s eyes for a few seconds. It was then that he saw the movement. The Raven moved as one, dipped sword points suddenly at the ready.

From inside and around the edges of the buildings, walking and half stumbling, came the inhabitants of the village. In a few moments they had filled the space in front of the buildings and had begun a ponderous move towards The Raven. Hirad tried to make a count, but at fifty their movement fooled his eyes, and surely there were many times more than that.

From this distance, they looked thin and pale, a confusion of limbs, but within a few strides, what they were became plain.

‘Gods in the ground, I don’t believe it,’ whispered Hirad. The Raven, again as one, stopped.

‘ ‘‘Though death takes the breath from their bodies and the flesh from their faces’’,’ quoted Denser, his voice a mutter.

There was something wrong with the way they balanced – or rather, didn’t. Not that there should be a right way for a dead creature to balance, thought Hirad. He shuddered. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but as the villagers continued their painfully slow approach, he thought he could see their backs twitching, almost with every stride.

One of the leaders stumbled over a rock and reflexively unfolded wings to steady itself. But they were nothing more than bone connected with shredded membrane, and it fell. The others moved on, now only seventy paces away.

It was impossible to take in. A force of dead avian people, rotted cloth covering bones, oval heads centred with huge empty eye slits, and all walking at the same dull pace. They were moving to fill the space to either edge of the plateau. And they were closing remorse-lessly.

‘Any suggestions?’ asked the barbarian, a cool feeling of panic edging around his heart. The dead would be on them in a couple of minutes.

‘They’ve got no weapons. What are they going to do?’ asked Talan.

‘Just walk on, I should think,’ said Denser. ‘After all, we’ve got nowhere to go except back through the rip and we can’t hope to stand up to that number. They’ll just keep on coming and eventually 157

you won’t have the room to use your swords. And if you aren’t careful they’ll push you straight off the edge.’

‘But how can they be moving?’ demanded Hirad. ‘They’re just bones, they’re dead.’

‘Is it some sort of spell?’ asked Richmond.

‘Perhaps something that tied their lives and deaths to that promise they made Septern,’ said Ilkar.

‘Let’s worry about it later. We have to get behind them somehow,’ said Hirad. ‘Whatever it is we’re looking for and they’re defending has got to be in that village somewhere.’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Denser. ‘Want to hear it?’ Hirad nodded.

‘Ilkar casts a ForceCone at them and punches a hole in the line. Me and you run through to search the village. Everyone else keeps them occupied as long as possible, then gets through the rip before they’re pushed off the edge of the platform.’

‘Why don’t we all go?’ asked Richmond.

‘Because they’ll just turn around. Or I think they will,’ replied Denser. ‘I’m hoping if there are people in front of them, they’ll keep coming and you can delay them, give us time to look. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’

There was a brief silence, punctuated by the ominous dry brushing noise of the approaching dead, now only a minute away, their density increasing as the plateau narrowed towards its edge, forcing them closer and closer together.

‘It’ll do,’ said Ilkar.

‘Make it a good one,’ whispered Denser.

‘It’ll be nothing less,’ Ilkar said coldly.

Hirad came to stand by Denser and just to Ilkar’s left. ‘Talan, Richmond, when Ilkar’s cast the spell, make sure you all stand in front of the rip. At least when you get pushed back you’ll have the best chance of falling into it instead of down there . . . wherever there is.’

Talan nodded. ‘And what about you?’

Hirad shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Just keep your fingers crossed, all right?’

‘Sure.’

‘Just a couple of things,’ said Ilkar. Hirad turned to him. ‘I’m going to put a colour in the Cone so you can see it, and when I cast 158

it, get down there quickly. When I can see you next to the villagers, I’ll let it go. Then it’s up to you.’ Ilkar closed his eyes and began to shape the mana. An initial stab of alarm when he felt nothing was washed away by relief when a jolt shook his body as the base fuel of magic in Balaia breached the dimensional divide, drawing on the static power source that held the rip in place.

Ilkar wobbled on his legs, steadied and formed the ForceCone, adding speed and what he expected to be a swirling green to the spell’s innate power. A short intonation followed, then Ilkar opened his eyes and chose an area close to the left-hand side of the platform.

Speaking the command word, he jabbed his hands forward and the Cone crashed into the advancing villagers, shattering three on impact, their bones hurled in ail directions. It ploughed on, driving a wedge through the ranks of the dead, pushing bodies to either side and causing mayhem. Skeletons fell like dominoes left and right.

Bone wings flapped uselessly as legs were swept away by falling comrades, and at the edge of the platform, some slipped over the edge and into oblivion.

The Cone held firm, Ilkar edging it back as the villagers slowly reformed and advanced. Hirad turned to Talan and Richmond.

‘Don’t risk yourselves, don’t come back and don’t let him do anything stupid.’ He jerked his thumb at Ilkar. The warriors said nothing, inclining their heads in tight-lipped acknowledgement.

Hirad placed a hand on Denser’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go. Stay behind me.’ The barbarian hefted his sword and trotted off down the clearly defined Cone. As he closed, the sight of the villagers was shocking.

Collections of bones shambling forwards, some with hands missing, others with ribs, hips or shoulders smashed, all with black streaks discolouring the white of their bones. But it was the lifeless heads which never moved that caused Hirad to flinch as he looked deep into the black caverns that were eye sockets.

Inside was nothing. No light, no life, nothing. Yet still they moved. Still they had purpose. If one had spoken, the barbarian would have turned and fled.

Five paces from the front rank of the villagers, Ilkar cut the ForceCone, leaving them a gap through which to run. Hirad pulled his sword in front of his face and increased his pace to a sprint, hearing Denser right on his heels. The cat streaked through his legs, 159

on past the skeletons and into the village. For a moment, the dead continued as they had with the Cone in place, but as Hirad moved through the first of them, the line started to close. He shuddered as he ran, crying out as bone hands snagged his leather and slashing in front of his face as a skull appeared right in front of him. His strike swept it from its neck and the body collapsed.

It was tight. Denser’s breathing was loud in his ears, and he cursed under his breath. Hirad swung his sword through double-handed again and again at chest height, feeling it shatter bone and crunch into wing membrane, head and shoulder. And never once did a villager lift a hand to strike them.

They broke through the line, stumbling to a stop after a dozen or so paces and turning to see what they’d left behind. The gap was closed. The villagers walked on towards the rip, not looking back, advancing on The Raven trio who stood with their backs to the moving darkness that was the dimension gate, swords at the ready.

Ilkar managed a wave and Hirad responded before turning a face running with sweat to Denser.

‘We’d better be quick,’ said the Dark Mage. ‘Once those three are forced through the rip, the villagers will be coming back, only we don’t have anywhere to fall except down or through the other rip.’

Hirad raised his eyebrows, nodding nervously.

The two men trotted into the village, where they stopped again, staring at the derelict settlement. All around, they could see the crumbling remnants of a civilisation. Buildings, blasted and blackened, scorched and falling to rubble; large pots, jugs, and cauldrons lying over the ground. What was once furniture, tables, chairs and pedestals, could be seen in the ruins of the houses. Cloth had rotted to dust, pottery was cracked and chipped, wood was splintered and burned, and all that was left was chaos.

‘How did they live up here?’ asked Hirad, picking up the handle piece of a broken jug. ‘I mean, it’s so small.’ He stared back the way they had come, looking afresh at the empty earth. From the settlement, he could see squares of darker ground meshed in a grid of lighter areas. Plots and paths. Gods, they had been farmers. Farmers who could fly. ‘And what’s down there?’ He threw the jug towards the edge of the plateau. It shattered on the ground a long way from its intended destination.

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‘Nothing, at a guess,’ said Denser. ‘I expect that’s why they came up here to live.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Hirad. ‘Why would there be nothing down there?’

‘You can’t use Balaia as a reference to explain this. Hell, I’m just stabbing in the dark. All we know is, this is how they ended up.

Draw your own conclusions.’

‘But why did they die?’

Denser shrugged and turned away, scanning the village. ‘I have no idea and we haven’t the time to think it out just now. Start looking.’

Hirad peered inside one of the buildings, seeing a microcosm of the village itself reflected in its age-ridden remains. Bones littered the floor and a skull hung from the great oval hole in the roof. Black soot covered every surface.

‘What are we looking for?’

‘How many more times?’ said Denser, moving away in a random direction. ‘I don’t know. Look, let’s split up and see if anything is obvious. I don’t know. I’m expecting it to be different from the rest of this bloody mess: something brought here, not made here.’

Hirad glanced behind him before setting off away from Denser.

The villagers were still walking and The Raven were still standing.

Still waiting. At that moment, he felt a wash of pride. Those men, his friends and companions, would never turn their backs.

He picked his way at a run past ruin after ruin and everywhere he looked it was the same. Broken buildings, rotten furnishings, smashed pottery. And scorched, as if some monstrous fire had swept the village aside like dust in the wind. He moved through the village, taking in what had been the far side of the platform and the other rip hanging in the sky. Even as he wondered what lay beyond it and considered that he wasn’t in a hurry to find out, he heard Denser shout. Glancing to his left, he could see the Dark Mage running towards a building at the edge of the village on the way to the rip.

The barbarian scampered through the rubble and raced in through the opening of yet another half-fallen dwelling just a few paces behind the Xeteskian. And there, being circled slowly by the 161

cat, sat a small child. A splash of light and colour and very much alive.

She wore a blue dress, and a matching scarf was tied around her long blonde hair. Her eyes were large and blue, and below her tiny nose was a mouth which displayed no humour. She was staring at the cat, following its slow movements around her, clutching a small chest in her bare arms.

‘Kill it, Hirad,’ hissed Denser. ‘Do it now and do it quickly.’

‘What?’ said Hirad. ‘No! Just take the chest and let’s get out of here.’ He made a move towards the girl but was stopped by Denser’s hand on his arm.

‘It’s not what it might seem,’ said the Dark Mage. ‘Open your eyes, Hirad. Do you really think she could live here as she is?’

The girl turned her gaze from the cat and to the two men at the doorway, noticing them for the first time.

‘Keep your sword ready,’ said Denser, drawing his own blade and taking a half-step to the side.

Hirad glanced at the mage’s face. It was set, his eyes were on the girl and they were scared. The barbarian hefted his blade.

‘Can’t you cast a spell or something?’

A shake of the head. ‘It won’t wait that long.’

‘Who is she?’ asked Hirad.

‘I’m not sure. Nothing ordinary. Septern must have created her.

Just keep your eye on that chest. We mustn’t lose it or damage it.’

‘Whatever you say.’

The girl smiled. It was a gesture quite without feeling and it left her eyes cold. Hirad shivered. And when she spoke, though the sound of her voice was that of a nine-year-old, its weight and power set the back of his scalp crawling.

‘You are the first,’ she said. ‘And you shall be the last and only.’

‘And what are you?’ asked Denser.

‘I am your nightmare. I am your death.’ She moved. Lunged forward at blurring speed. And as she moved, she transformed.

Hirad screamed.

The villagers closed. Ilkar, Talan and Richmond had backed to within half a dozen paces of the rip. The flanks moved inwards, 162

forcing a still greater pressure on the press of skeletons scant feet from them.

Behind the lines lay the sheared bones of perhaps forty of the walking dead, victims of the hacking and slashing swords of the Raven trio. And now, with sweat-slick faces and lungs heaving, they were staring at imminent defeat.

‘We haven’t slowed them at all,’ rasped Talan, kicking the legs from under a skeleton and dashing its skull with the butt of his sword.

‘No impression,’ Ilkar agreed, and indeed there didn’t seem to be.

Their immediate vision was still crowded with jostling arms, legs and the remains of wings. And all they could hear was the hollow sound of fleshless feet on the hard-packed earth and the click of bone on bone, over and over.

‘How many of them are there?’ said Richmond, straightening from a strike which had shattered three spines.

‘Hundreds.’ Talan shrugged. ‘Where the bastards come from, though, is another matter.’

They stepped back once more, feeling the edge of the rip at the backs of their thighs. They struck out again, sending slivers of bone flying and villagers crashing into one another. Still on came the dead. Never once raising their arms to attack, but then, it wasn’t necessary. They pressed in from the sides and the front and the sheer weight of their numbers made the end inevitable.

‘See you on the other side,’ said Ilkar. He was pushed backwards into the rip, and even as he fell, followed moments later by Talan and Richmond, he saw the skeletons turn and head back to the village.

The girl’s legs, suddenly brown, fur-covered and thick with muscle, thrust forwards, shooting her upright. Clawed feet scratched at the ground, a tail, spiked and leathery, sprouted from the small of her back, and as her dress melted away, it was replaced by a heaving bull chest with prominent ribs above a taut and hairless stomach. Her arms bulged to power, muscles bunched in her biceps and triceps, while those delicate hands swelled, grew and stretched, the fingers clawing to razor-sharp talons.

But the head. It was the head that drew the scream from Hirad’s 163

lips. The girl’s face fell into itself like water down a hole but those eyes held, still blue until the last, when they too disappeared to be replaced by flat black slits. And out of the hole sprang forth fangs in a wide mouth, dripping saliva. The blonde hair remained; the brow was heavy, chin pointed and jaws snapping. A thin tongue licked out of the creature’s mouth and it hissed as it struck.

Reflexively, Hirad brought his sword in front of his face and the creature’s claw skittered off it, nicking the flesh. It howled in pain and backed off a step, small chest still clutched in the other clawed hand.

‘Fuck!’ spat Hirad, shaking all over and moving to cover Denser.

‘Careful, Hirad.’

‘What else do you think I’m going to be?’

The creature flew forwards again, arms flailing, tail whipping in front of it. Hirad side-stepped and slashed downwards into the blur of the attack, praying he’d connect before one of those talons raked or skewered him. His blade connected with wood, then flesh as it hammered through its arc. There was a keening wail, a whiplash sound and a heavy crash. Splinters of wood flew in all directions.

Hirad straightened, trying to take it all in. Denser was lying prone, half in and half out of the door to the building. He wasn’t moving. The creature had retreated to the back of the room, clutching at the stump of its left hand, trying in vain to stop the pulses of blood gouting from the wound. Its hand lay on the floor close to Hirad’s feet, and in amongst the debris of the broken wooden chest lay a single sheet of parchment, folded, brown and dog-eared.

Even as he laid his eyes on it, the barbarian heard the whimpering stop. He looked up into the feral, now yellow eyes of the beast as it rose to its feet, new hand growing out of the healing end of its arm.

‘Dear Gods,’ muttered Hirad.

The creature staggered slightly and clutched at a shelf to balance itself. Hirad snatched a dagger from his belt and hurled it forwards as he launched himself at the creature. The gleaming metal blade whirred through the air, catching the creature’s gaze. It traced the dagger’s flight, eyes narrowing until they all but disappeared under its brow.

Hirad moved forwards across the few feet that separated them, 164

slashing at the creature’s neck as it switched its attention to him.

The dagger, forgotten, slapped harmlessly into the wall of the building. The creature dodged the blow and whipped its tail into Hirad’s legs, tripping him. He fell, rolled and sat up on his haunches. The beast came on, still unsteady. Hirad scrambled to his feet and the two faced each other.

The creature bellowed, blowing hot, stinking breath into the barbarian’s face. Hirad stepped back a pace at the sound, so deep and powerful from so small a body. He switched his blade between his hands, three times; it finished in his left hand. He clamped his right hand above his left, stepped in again and brought the blade through in an upward left-to-right arc. The creature failed to follow the movement, its hands were too slow coming to its defence and the blade crashed into its pointed jaw, Hirad roaring as he forced the blade through its face to exit from its left eye. The split face sprayed blood and gore as its head snapped up and back on its neck, and the creature screeched and fell backwards, clutching at the sides of the gash.

Hirad stepped up, looked down on it, shuddered and drove his sword through its heart. Another screech and the creature jerked spasmodically and lay still.

‘Burn it.’

Hirad spun round and saw Denser sitting up, leaning against the door frame, massaging his side, his cat nuzzling his face from a perch on his shoulder.

‘Burn?’

‘Now. It’ll recover if you don’t.’

The barbarian turned back to the creature and saw immediately that it had begun to breathe.

‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. He sheathed his sword and scrabbled in his belt pouches for an oil flask. He pulled a tiny phial out along with his flint and steel.

‘Here,’ said Denser. A much larger flask rattled to the floor by Hirad’s feet.

‘This won’t burn properly, it’s lamp oil, isn’t it?’ said the barbarian, snatching it up.

‘Trust me, it’ll burn.’

Hirad shrugged and ran over to the creature. He sprinkled the oil 165

over its furred body, spread some tinder on its chest by the wound in its heart, which was closing even now, and struck the flint and steel next to it. A sheet of flame instantly smothered the body. Hirad leaped back, wiping at the heat on his face.

The creature’s eyes flickered and opened. An arm twitched.

Hirad shook his head. ‘Too late.’ He drew his sword and repeated the stab to the heart. The beast lay still. He walked backwards, watching the fire take hold. Wood crunched under his foot. He glanced down and saw he’d trodden on the large part of the shattered chest. His foot was right next to the parchment; he stooped and picked it up.

‘Is it damaged?’ asked Denser from behind him.

‘No, I don’t think so. How about you?’

‘I’m all right, just winded.’ He rubbed his side. ‘We were lucky it was a parchment and not a crystal or something. That blow of yours would have finished our job rather abruptly, wouldn’t it?’

Hirad raised his eyebrows, ambled over and handed the parchment to Denser, helping the Dark Mage to his feet. Denser looked over his shoulder and nodded.

‘What was it?’

‘Sentient conjuration,’ said Denser. ‘It takes so long to cast, I never really bothered with it. Obviously Septern did.’ He turned his attention to the parchment.

‘Why was it a girl to start with?’

Denser stopped reading. ‘Well, a sentient conjuration is created for a specific purpose, in this case to protect this parchment. While they have no actual life, they can reason to a degree and that allows them to assess situations and react accordingly. I would guess the girl we saw was the image of a relative of Septern’s, because if the mage has clear memories, the image requires much less mana to create and sustain.’

‘But why—’

‘Hold on, I know what you’re thinking. The girl would have been the ‘‘at rest’’ manifestation, because the beast, something out of his nightmares by the look of it, would take too much mana to sustain, see?’

‘Kind of, but even so, three hundred years . . .’

‘Yes, quite. I can’t believe that even Septern, powerful though he 166

must have been, could create a sentient conjuration able to exist for anything more than forty years at the absolute outside. Presumably the rips provided it with enough static mana to keep it going.’ Denser went back to the parchment, leaving Hirad to walk back towards the rip a few paces. All was quiet. He frowned and jogged further on.

‘Ilkar?’ he called. ‘Ilkar!’ Nothing. No answer, but no villagers either, and as he moved to the border of the village, he could see why. They had all dropped maybe eighty paces from the village, forming a carpet of bone. A line of cold ran up Hirad’s spine. If The Raven had managed to kill them all, then where were they? And if they hadn’t, then why had the skeletons fallen?

He turned a quick full circle, acutely aware of his isolation. Above him, the dark cloud boiled along, chased by an awesome wind he couldn’t hear. Below, flash followed flash as lightning deluged the lands beneath, while dotted across the skyline, like sentinels of some ancient doom, the other plateaux loomed, their shapes dim against the blackness, their presence fraying his courage. Where were The Raven? He prayed that they had returned through the rip. The alternatives were unthinkable.

‘Denser?’ He half-ran back to where the Dark Mage had been reading, but he wasn’t there. A spear of panic stole his breath before he spotted the Xeteskian walking in the other direction, towards the rip at the opposite end of the platform.

‘Denser!’ The mage turned. Hirad could see his pipe smoking gently. The cat was in his cloak, head alert, and Denser was stroking its head. Of the parchment there was no sign. ‘Have you read it?’

Denser nodded.

‘And?’ Hirad was still walking.

‘I couldn’t read it all. Ilkar’ll have to have a go too.’

Close to, Hirad could see something was amiss. Denser’s gaze seemed unfocused and he glanced now and then over his shoulder at the rip.

‘Are you all right? The Raven and the skeletons are all gone. Are you sure that thing didn’t hit you on the head?’

Denser raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘I’m sure they’re fine.’ He paused. ‘Hirad, have you ever just had to do something? You know, something your curiosity just wouldn’t let you forget?’

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Hirad shrugged. ‘Probably. I don’t know. What are you on about?’

Denser turned and carried on towards the rip. For a moment, Hirad was confused. Just for a moment.

‘You have got to be joking!’ He set off after the mage.

‘I have to know. It’s just one of those things.’ Denser’s step quickened.

‘What has got into you?’ Hirad broke into a trot. ‘You can’t do it, Denser. You can’t afford to. We’ve got—’ He put a hand on Denser’s shoulder. The cat slashed at it with a claw, missing as he snatched it back. The Dark Mage turned a hard-set face to him. His eyes were lost, adrift in his churning mind.

‘Don’t touch us, Hirad,’ he said. ‘And don’t try to stop us.’ He turned his face away, strode to the rip and jumped into it.

Seconds later the cat was back. It fell from the rip in an ungainly jumble of limbs, hit the ground and sprinted behind Hirad, scattering stones and grit.

The barbarian stared at it, its coat ruffled and flecked with dust, stomach heaving as it dragged air into its lungs. Its tail was coiled tightly under its hind legs and its eyes were fixed on the rip, waiting.

It was shaking all over.

‘Oh, no,’ Hirad breathed. He took half a pace towards the swirling brown mass before a shimmer in its surface stopped him. Denser plunged out and sprawled in the dirt. His face was sheet-white.

‘Thank the Gods,’ muttered the barbarian, but his lips tightened in anger. He helped Denser to a sitting position, feeling the mage quivering beneath his hands. He slapped some debris from his cloak.

‘You satisfied now?’

‘It was black,’ said Denser, gesturing with his hands, not looking up. ‘It was all black.’

‘Make sense, Denser.’ The mage locked eyes with him, his pupils huge.

‘Burned and burning. It was all ruined, cracked and black. It made this place look alive. The ground was all black and the sky was full of Dragons.’

It was a line straight from Hirad’s dream. The barbarian straightened and took an involuntary pace backwards. He swallowed hard and gazed at the rip. Beyond it, his nightmare lived.

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The enormity of Denser’s action hit him like a runaway horse. He switched his stare to the mage, who was on his feet.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

Denser nodded, half smiled. The barbarian’s punch caught him square on the jaw, knocking him down hard.

‘What the—’ he began.

Hirad leant over him and grabbed the neck of his cloak, pulling their faces close.

‘What did you think you were doing?’ the barbarian rasped, his anger burning, his brow a thundercloud. ‘You could have thrown it all away.’

‘I . . .’ Denser looked blank.

Hirad shook him. ‘Shut up! Shut up and listen to me. You took the parchment through there. What if you’d never come back? Your precious mission would have been over, and my friends’ – he drew a deep breath – ‘my friends who died for you would have died for nothing.’ He dropped the mage back into the dirt and placed a foot on his chest. ‘If you ever try anything like that again, I won’t stop until your face is inside out. Understand?’

Hirad heard a whispering sound behind him. Denser looked past him, his eyes widened and he shook his head. Hirad turned, removing his foot from the supine mage. Denser’s cat bored a stare of undisguised malevolence into him. He flinched, then grunted.

‘Your cat going to sort me out, was it?’

‘You’re a fortunate man, Hirad.’

The barbarian swung round. ‘No, Denser, you are. I should kill you. The trouble is, I’m beginning to believe you.’ He stalked away through the village towards the first rip and, he hoped, The Raven.

If there was anything left of it.

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Chapter 12

Dropping to the ground in Septern’s study, Hirad caught Ilkar’s eye. The elf smiled. To his left, Talan stopped in the act of shoulder-ing his pack. Hirad gathered his thoughts as his heart rate returned to something approaching normal.

‘I said not to come back,’ he said.

Talan shrugged. ‘You’re Raven.’

Hirad sucked his lip, nodded his thanks.

‘Did you find anything?’ asked Ilkar.

Hirad inclined his head.

‘Where’s Denser?’ Richmond was frowning.

‘Thinking hard, I hope,’ replied Hirad.

‘What about?’

‘His responsibilities. And how he treats The Raven – alive or dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Hirad didn’t reply immediately. He dusted himself down and turned to the rip. Its surface shimmered.

‘Perhaps you’d better ask the great explorer himself,’ he said.

Denser emerged from the rip, his cat right behind him. He studiously avoided Hirad’s cold gaze, choosing to examine the floor as he steadied himself. Presently, he rose to his feet. The cat jumped into his cloak. Denser rubbed his chin, pulled the parchment from a pocket and handed it to Ilkar. The elf examined the reddening area on the point of Denser’s jaw. He pursed his lips and looked past the Dark Mage to Hirad as he took the parchment. Hirad flexed the fingers of his right hand.

‘This is it, is it?’ asked Ilkar. Denser nodded. ‘Well?’

‘Some of it’s Julatsan lore, just like the amulet. I need you to help me understand it.’

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‘I see.’

The two men walked over to Septern’s desk, where a lantern cast light enough to read by.

Hirad sat down. Talan and Richmond came over and squatted by him, wanting answers to questions. Hirad obliged and sketched in the events in the village, always with one eye on the mage pair, whose body language and hurried voices suggested problems. Hirad also had questions of his own, and The Raven warriors’ shaken heads and dulled sword blades provided ample answers.

It wasn’t too long before Denser and Ilkar had finished and moved back to the centre of the rip in front of the three fighting men. Ilkar held the parchment, his face troubled. Denser stared impassively at Hirad. The barbarian ignored him and addressed Ilkar.

‘So, what’s the plan, my friend?’ he asked.

‘Well, there’s good news and really really bad news. The good is that we know what we have to do. The bad is that we have next to no chance of doing it.’

‘He’s always been good at making things sound attractive, hasn’t he?’ Talan raised his eyebrows.

‘A master,’ said Richmond drily.

‘Spell it out then,’ said Hirad. ‘No pun intended.’

‘Right,’ the Julatsan began. He glanced at Denser, who motioned him to continue. ‘Septern, as we keep saying, was very clever. When he constructed the spell and worked out how powerful it actually was, he wrote three catalysts into its lore without which it would not work. Catalysts can be any number and anything the mage chooses; Septern could have chosen a mug of beer if he’d wanted. The point is that once the lore is written, it can’t be changed, and Septern chose three catalysts he knew it would be all but impossible to bring together in one place.

‘This parchment is the complete spell, and while it doesn’t tell how the catalysts underpin Dawnthief, it gives their names and locations as he knew them.’ He paused. The room was silent. ‘You ready for this?’

Richmond shrugged. ‘I doubt it,’ he said.

‘So do I,’ said Ilkar grimly. He referred to the parchment. ‘The first is a Dordovan Ring of Authority. Now, all four Colleges have 171

these. They are worn by Lore Masters and are signs of rank and seniority. All Rings of Authority are individually designed and cast and are only ever worn by the one Master. When he or she dies, the ring is buried with them. The particular ring Septern names belonged to the Lore Master Arteche, and so will be in his tomb in Dordover.’

Talan shifted. ‘So we have to go into a College City, break into their Masters’ mausoleum and take this ring, right?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’ Ilkar had the grace to appear apolo-getic at least.

‘Can’t we just ask them to hand it over?’ asked Richmond.