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'Barclay writes with power, pace and a wonderful sense of humour. Better than that, he creates novels you want to read again and again'

David Gemmell

'A greathearted book written on a grand scale. An enthralling novel: gritty, down-to-earth and delightful, invoking tears and laughter by turn, This is the best new fantasy I've read in years'

Maggie Furey

'Majors on sheer energy and a fast, often frenetic pace. Barclay writes with an assured gusto, has a great eye for action, and imbues his story with a fine imagination and jolts of wit. If ever there was a case of a plot acting like a man-trap this is it. Barclay brings a genuine aesthetic to the fantasy action novel'

Stan Nicholls

'Truly excellent fantasy is rare. Truly excellent heroic fantasy is rarer still. Discovering a new author who writes truly excellent heroic fantasy is perhaps the rarest gem of all. James Barclay is such a find'

SFSite.com

'The fantasy equivalent of The Magnificent Seven. A good fast read perfect for that legendary train journey, but more thoughtful than many novels in this area' SFX

'Quite simply, spectacular storytelling. One of the most exciting and exhilarating series in a long time'

Amazon.co.uk

Also by James Barclay:

Chronicles of The Raven

DAWNTHIEF

NOONSHADE

NIGHTCHILD

Legends of The Raven

ELFSORROW

SHADOWHEART

RAVENSOUL

The Ascendants of Estorea

CRY OF THE NEWBORN

A SHOUT FOR THE DEAD

Demonstorm

LEGENDS OF THE RAVEN

JAMES BARCLAY

Copyright James Barclay 2004 All rights reserved

The right of James Barclay to be identified as the author

of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by

Gollancz

An imprint of the Orion Publishing Group

Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane, London WC2H 9EA

An Hachette Livre UK Company

This edition published in Great Britain in 2008 by Gollancz

13579 10 8642

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 0 57508 2 762

Typeset at The Spartan Press Ltd, Lymington, Hants

Printed and bound in the UK by CPI Mackays, Chatham ME5 8TD

The Orion Publishing Group's policy is to use papers that are natural,

renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests.

The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental

regulations of the country of origin.

www.orionbooks.co.uk www.jamesbarclay.com

For Simon Spanton, a great friend and great editor, and without whom there would have been no Raven.

Cast List

THE RAVEN

Hirad Coldheart barbarian warrior

The Unknown Warrior/Sol warrior

Throun shapechanger

Ry Darrick cavalry swordsman

Denser xeteskian mage

Erienne dordovan mage

THE COLLEGES

Dystran lord of the mount, xetesk

Ranyl circle seven master mage, xetesk

Myx a protector

Suamv captain, xeteskian college guard

Chandyr commander, xeteskian armies

Nyam senior mage, xetesk

Vuldaroq arch mage, dordover

Heryst lord elder mage, lystern

Izack commander, lysternan cavalry

Pheone high mage designate, julatsa

THE ELVES

Myriell al-drechar

Cleress al-drechar

Rebraal leader of the al-arynaar

Auum leader of the taigethen

Evunn tai cell of auum

Duele tai cell of auum

Dila'heth elven mage The ClawBound

BALAIANS, WESMEN, DRAGONS AND DEMONS

Blackthorne a baron

Ark AN EX-PROTECTOR

Devun leader of the black wings

Diem wife of the unknown warrior

Tessaya lord of the paleon tribes

Riasu lord keeper of understone pass

Sha-Kaan great kaan

Yasal-Naik GREAT NAIK

Ferouc MASTER STRAIN

Drenoul MASTER STRAIN

Chapter 1

'Again!' Tessaya swept his arm down. 'Again!'

The Wesmen charged the walls of Xetesk once more, tribal banners snapping in the breeze, voices mingling to a roar. The ladders drove into position, his warriors stormed up their rough rungs. Below them, archers tried to keep the defenders back from the wall. A difficult task over such a distance.

In the deep night-shadows of Xetesk's walls, tribesmen pivoted more ladders. Along a four- hundred-yard stretch of wall tlrey arced up. The best of them just rough-cut and bound, the worst little more than shaved trunks of the tallest trees they could find. In earlier attacks, some had not been tall enough. He saw the ladders catching the light of the torches on the battlements before they thudded into place, warriors already swarming up them two abreast.

This time he had his enemy. This time, the Wesmen would break through the defences. He could feel it. In the daylight, many had died. Spells and arrows had ripped into wood and flesh. Burning warriors had tumbled to the ground screaming. Ladders, charred or frozen, had cracked and collapsed in heartbeats.

Yet the tribes had not faltered. Urged on by their lords who could see victory so close they had continued to press. And while hundreds scoured the land for the wood to build more ladders, hundreds more died at the Walls doing exactly what had to be done. They exhausted the spell casters.

Tessaya saw the outlines of men running along the battlements to prepare their defence. Below them, holding shields above their heads, came his warriors. It was the fourth attack of the day. The night was just passing its zenith, and the spells no longer deluged them.

In desultory fashion, the odd casting blew away the top of a ladder and the men that scaled it. But that was all. Tessaya had foreseen this moment and had kept back his greatest force. Xetesk no longer had the magical power to stop them. Now it came down to who was the stronger with sword, axe and spear. And that was a battle he knew the Wesmen would win.

He watched for a moment longer. Arrows still peppered the warriors streaming up the ladders. His people still fell in their dozens. He breathed the night air deeply. The smells of ash and fear mingled with the freshness of grass in the breeze. He heard the voices of the Wesmen, their tribal songs echoing from the walls of Xetesk. They were the anthems of strength and victory, swelling in volume with every heartbeat.

He turned to Lord Riasu. The man's small eyes sparkled in the darkness and his heavy-set features had reddened with excitement.

'You can feel it too.'

'I can, Lord Tessaya,' said Riasu. 'We are so close.'

'And what is your desire now?'

Riasu nodded in the direction of the walls. More and more Wesmen were higher and higher up the ladders. Arrows alone were not enough and the spells had all but stopped falling. One deep blue flash to their left served as a reminder of the diminished threat.

'My men are on those ladders,' he said. T would join them. Lead them onto the walls.'

Tessaya smiled and slapped Riasu hard on the back. 'It is a wish I share.'

He looked quickly about him. Six other tribal lords stood with them, their warriors, a thousand and more, ready to charge forwards. Their shouts of encouragement to those already engaged sounded across the open ground. Beyond them, the fires of the camp burned and the Paleon guard stood watch over the Shamen while they prayed for guidance and strength from the Spirits. Prayers that had surely been answered.

The group of lords was close to him. All wanted just one thing but waited for Tessaya's word. Ten tribes and their lords had been unleashed already. The glory of being the first to make the walls outweighing the risk of death. Three of those lords had joined the Spirits as heroes. Four more would join them shortly. The remaining three were at the walls now.

'It is time,' said Tessaya. He unhitched his axe and held it in one hand. 'My Lords, let us deal the greatest blow.'

He raised his axe high above his head, roared a Paleon war cry and led the charge to the walls. Behind him, the lords invoked their tribal Spirits and came after him, a thousand warriors with them, voices raised to a deafening crescendo.

Tessaya ran. His braided silver-grey hair bounced on his shoulders; his arms and legs pumped hard, the breeze was on his face. He couldn't remember ever feeling more alive. Not even leading the Wesmen out of the shadow of Understone Pass matched this. Then, they had so much still to accomplish and had failed. Now, their goal was within his grasp.

His forgotten youth surged back into his middle-aged veins. His heart thumped life through his body. His mind was clear, his eyes sharp. The Spirits were with him and within him. Nothing could stop him. He laughed aloud and upped his pace.

The darkness deepened in the lee of Xetesk's walls. Seventy feet high, with a slight outward slope. Imposing, menacing and never before breached. Here, the noise of the fight intensified. Tessaya could hear tlie thud of bow strings, the creaking of the wood against its bindings and the calls of the Wesmen above him, silhouetted against the flare of torches.

As they had been ordered, the Wesmen, barring those bracing and those about to climb, did not cluster around the ladder bases. They were scattered across the field, waiting the shout to approach. No dense targets for the mages, no easy masses for the archers.

Tessaya ran past the waiting warriors, his name being taken up and spreading across the field quicker than a scrub fire. And by the time he had run through the waiting warriors and had his path cleared to the base of the ladder, all he could hear was the chanting of his name.

He thumped onto the bottom rung, exhorting those around and above him to push harder. Riasu was right behind him, yelling in a tribal dialect Tessaya could barely understand. Not that he had to. The message was clear enough.

Tessaya climbed fast, feeling the timber give beneath his feet and the ladder shake and bow. But the bindings were firm and would hold. Left and right, Wesmen hurried up their ladders. Energy was

pouring into the assault now Tessaya had joined. Those in the fight knew they would not fail.

'Keep close to the rungs,' ordered Tessaya. 'Don't give them a target.'

A shame not all of his men heeded that advice. Arrows were still streaming by. One thudded home into the exposed neck of a warrior who risked looking up to see how far he had to go. Screaming, he plunged past Tessaya and bounced dead on the ground below.

'Keep moving!' he shouted.

There was a man right above him. Tessaya unashamedly used him as a shield. He noted how far he had climbed by the closeness of the wall behind the ladder. Not far now.

Another spell flashed across the night sky. To his left, ice howled into flesh and wood, expanding into cracks and splitting bindings and rungs. The ladder shattered, spilling survivors onto the long drop to death. Tessaya cursed. But the roar was intensifying above him and he heard the first glorious sounds of metal on metal, his warriors finally face to face with the Xeteskian defenders. A smile cracked across his face.

'Still with me, Riasu?' he called.

'I am, my Lord,' came the slightly breathless reply. 'I can smell their fear.'

'Then let's not delay you seeing it in their eyes,' said Tessaya. 'Push!'

Now Tessaya looked up. He was only ten or so feet from the battlements. The arrows had stopped now. His men were climbing faster and he along with them, desperate to reach the walls before the small bridgehead was closed. One body fell to his right. Sparks flew as weapons collided and the songs of the Wesmen grew still louder, instilling in them all the desire to fight harder. For the tribes, for themselves, and for all those who had died to bring them to this place.

Those above him were still moving too slowly for his liking. Holding his axe outside the right-hand edge of the ladder, he shifted as far as he dared to that side and began to shout warriors from his path.

'Left, go left. Let me through. Go, go!'

He could sense Riasu right in his tracks. Using his left hand to steady himself, Tessaya surged up the rungs, using the ladder's angle against the wall to give him momentum. The breach was still

holding. His men were breasting the walls scant feet from him. He could smell the stone, cold and ancient.

The sounds of the fighting came slightly muted to him. The individual batdes. Grunts of exertion, cries of pain and shock. The thud and clash of weapon on leather and chain. The squeal of blades thrust together. The drop of bodies on stone and the scrabbling of feet desperate for purchase and balance.

Right at the head of the ladder, the reason for the slow progress above became clear. One warrior clung fast to the top rung. He had been sick over his hands and his weapon was still sheathed. Tessaya paused by him, swallowing his disgust at the cowardice when he saw the warrior's age.

'Stand with me, boy,' he said. 'Live or die you will know glory.'

The boy gave him a terrified look but nodded minutely.

'Good lad.'

Tessaya grabbed his collar and hauled him up the final step. In the next pace, they were on the walls and surrounding them was bedlam. Even Tessaya found the surge in volume of noise and the closeness of the action hard to take in. His charge wobbled at the knees. Urine poured down the boy's leggings and he vomited again. But in the midst of it all, he drew his blade, a short stabbing sword.

In die light cast by torches and braziers, the small breach was under concerted attack. Three other breaches could be seen left and right. Xeteskians were running in from the right and were packed left but coming under pressure from Wesmen on bodi sides. The parapet was no more than five feet wide, was unfenced and had never been built to defend in this fashion. Tessaya saw the game at once.

'Push out!' he yelled and jumped from the wall onto the bodies of the dead and into the backs of the living, shoving hard.

The Wesmen in Tessaya's way were forced off balance, able only to try and brace themselves against their, enemies. In front of them, the reflex backward pace was fatal. With nowhere to go, the three Xeteskians nearest the edge stepped out into nowhere, grabbed at those nearest and at least half a dozen fell into the city far below. One of his warriors went with them. Two others saved themselves.

'Keep the breach open,' he ordered. 'Fight, my tribes, fight. Hold

right, push left. Let's isolate those bastards. Someone get these bodies over the edges.'

They obeyed. Tessaya was with them and they would do anything he asked of them. He looked back to see where the boy was and saw him fighting and killing; terror replaced by the desire to live. He would not.

Riasu breasted the battlement and howled a battle cry, circling his axe above his head.

'Riasu, pass the message back down the ladders. I want clear wall between the two nearest gatehouses. Do it!'

Without waiting, Tessaya plunged into the fight. His axe carved down between two of his warriors, splitting the skull of an enemy. Blood fountained into the torchlit night. The first Xeteskian blood he had spilt in years. He drew back his axe to move into the space his warriors left him.

Before he focused on his next victim, he stared out over the city of Xetesk. The towers of the college stood stark against the sky, light blazing from every window and wall.

'I am coming,' he growled. T will cast you down.'

'Get back to the walls!' ordered Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk. 'Wesmen are standing on them. I look at my senior commander and do I really have to wonder why?'

Dystran had intercepted Commander Chandyr in the dome of the college tower complex having seen his most decorated soldier thundering through the streets on his horse. The otherwise empty dome echoed to raised voices. Chandyr's battle-scarred face was pale and angry. Dystran knew exactly how he felt.

'No, my Lord,' said Chandyr. 'You have withdrawn too many mages to the college. Give them back.'

'I will not exhaust every mage I have.'

'Then do not expect me to hold the walls much longer.'

'Ever the poor soldier blames lack of resource and support.'

Chandyr's eyes narrowed. 'Three thousand men against a few hundred, and many of those only just returned exhausted by forced march from Julatsa. What would you have me do, Lord Dystran?'

'I would have you do your job.'

'I am doing it,' said Chandyr quietly. 'I am before you trying to prevent a massacre.'

'Then how is it Wesmen have scaled my walls?'

Chandyr snapped. Dystran saw the shadow cross his eyes and felt the sharp prod of the commander's gauntleted finger in his ribs.

'Xetesk's walls, not yours,' he said, menace in his tone. 'And they are there because the defence to keep them away was taken from me by you at dusk. You have a responsibility "to this city which you are shirking. What use is the college if the city is burning around it, eh?'

Dystran did not speak for a moment, allowing Chandyr to lower his hand.

'The college is the city,' he said. 'And as ruler of the college, all the walls are mine. I shirk nothing, Chandyr. Indeed I should be applauded for taking mages from the slaughter over which you are presiding. They at least will be able to strike back.'

'Another of your indiscriminate dimensional spells, Dystran?' Chandyr scoffed. 'You will kill more innocents than enemies.'

T will stop the Wesmen,' said Dystran, feeling his patience expire. 'And you, Commander Chandyr, will remember to whom you are speaking and, if you take my advice, will choose your next words very, very carefully.'

A half-smile flickered across Chandyr's mouth. It didn't touch his eyes. He nodded and took a pace forwards, coming so close Dystran could barely focus on him.

'Never accuse me of being a poor soldier again.'

'Men are judged by their actions,' replied Dystran mildly, though his heart was beating faster.

'You only get one warning,' said Chandyr.

The commander spun on his heel and strode from the dome, shouting for his horse. Dystran watched him go, letting his anger build. He had no wish to suppress it and enjoyed the heat it generated in his mind and body.

Chandyr did not understand, he reflected, hurrying out of the dome towards the base of his tower. His guards saluted him on his approach. Something else Chandyr had failed to do. A typical soldier. Blind to the bigger picture. Fit only to accomplish the task set before him and sometimes not even that.

'I want Sharyr in my reception chamber right now,' he ordered. 'He'll be in my hub rooms.'

'Yes, my Lord,' said both men.

Dystran began to climb his stairs. He replayed Chandyr's words, the tiny claws of doubt scratching at his self-confidence. That they had underestimated the Wesmen was not in question. This had been no disordered attack. There were brains and tactics behind it along with brimming determination and a willingness for self-sacrifice that had been breathtaking. Tessaya was out there somewhere.

What taxed Dystran most was not that the Wesmen lord had managed to marshal his warriors into very effective decoy and draw units. The issue here was that he plainly knew Xetesk was poorly defended by mage and soldier and had deliberately kept up his attack waves to force stamina exhaustion. Where had he got his intelligence?

Tessaya's aim had been obvious earlier in the day. It was why Dystran had withdrawn a core of mages to join the dimensional team and prepare for the next casting window. A window that had better be open.

Chandyr had been unable to hold the Wesmen back, though. He was surprised and disappointed by that. Xeteskian soldiers and archers should have been able to deal with a few ladders. How was it then that Wesmen had done that which no one should have been able to do?

Perhaps he should have probed further.

By the time he reached his reception chamber on the third landing, he could hear running footsteps behind him. He threw open the balcony shutters of the dimly lit room to reveal an uncomfortable picture of the threat to his city. He augmented his sight with a quick casting to sharpen the fine detail.

Lights blazed in a wide ring around an area over two hundred yards in length. It was bustling with Wesmen but not thronged. They were attacking left and right towards the nearest turrets and had built a shield wall, fresh-cut wood for the most part, towards the city. Archers were having some success but it was not affecting the advance along the battlements.

Chandyr had defended the turrets heavily. The Wesmen were suffering significant casualties but without a solitary spell to force them back to their ladders their weight of numbers would ultimately tell. How soon was hard to say. Before dawn in all probability.

'Dammit,' he breathed. 'Where did I go wrong?'

'My Lord?' queried a voice behind him.

'Sharyr,' said Dystran, not turning to face his new head of dimensional magics. Barely more than a student but the best he had left. 'Come here. Tell me what you see.'

He heard a nervous shuffle then slightly laboured breathing mixing with snatches of noise from the walls. Dystran looked across to Sharyr and watched the balding young man scanning the night, anxious to pick up whatever he was supposed to see. He shifted uncomfortably and gave a half shrug.

'Wesmen on the walls?' he ventured, voice tremulous.

'Excellent,' said Dystran. 'Does that scare you?'

'Yes, my Lord,' said Sharyr. T have family in the city.'

'Then they are fortunate because you will personally be keeping them safe, won't you?'

'Me? I'

Dystran turned to face his nervous student.

'The distance between the walls of the city and those of this college is slight for a rampaging Wesmen army. Less than a mile, wouldn't you say?'

'My Lord.'

'This is not a big city,' said Dystran. 'When do you think the Wesmen will take either of those turrets?'

Sharyr stared at him blankly.

'You see,' continued Dystran. 'When they do, they will have access to our streets and more importantly, the south gatehouse. And there are thousands of them just itching to get in.'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'The point is that this undefined but quite possibly short length of time is how long you have to be ready to cast the spell of your choosing.'

'I' Sharyr backed up a pace into the room.

Dystran turned to follow him. 'You do understand that none of those men will reach the college, don't you? If Chandyr can't stop them, you will. Won't you?'

'The - the alignment isn't going to be complete until this time tomorrow night,' managed Sharyr.

'Oh dear,' said Dystran, putting a hand to his mouth. 'Whatever will you do?'

'Well, I don't know, my Lord,' replied Sharyr, missing Dystran's sarcasm completely.

Dystran bore down on Sharyr, forcing the younger man to back away across the room.

'Then let me enlighten you.' His voice barely above a whisper. carried all the menace of long practice. 'You will be ready to cast because you and I both know that the alignment can be forced for the purposes of the casting. I have written at great length on the subject. The spell will be difficult to control and you will instruct your charges how to handle the forces and inform them of the personal consequences of failure. Backfire from a dimensional casting is very, very messy.'

Sharyr fetched up against the mantle of the fire. Fortunately for him, diere was no heat from the embers.

'The risks to our city . . .' he began.

Dystran leant in further. 'The Wesmen will take this college if they are not stopped. That is the risk to our city. You will stop them or you will die in the attempt. Any of your team who feel they are not up to the task can report to me to discuss it.'

'I'

'Do not fail, Sharyr.' Dystran straightened and stepped back a pace, seeing the terror in the student's expression, the sweat beading on his brow and the darting of his eyes. He chose to smile. 'You have heard the shout, "Death or glory"? Bet you thought it only applied to soldiers, didn't you? Think again, get down to the catacombs and be ready. When the time comes, I will call you personally to the walls of the city. Go.'

Sharyr had the presence of mind at least to bow his head and mutter, 'My Lord.'

But the door to the reception chamber opened before he reached it and an old man with tears on his face stood in the brazier light from the stairway. It was Brannon, Ranyl's manservant of decades.

'Please, my Lord,' he said. 'You must come quickly.'

Dystran felt his world dropping around him and fear shiver though his body.

'Oh no,' he breathed, already starting to run. 'Not now. Not now.'

Chapter 2

Hirad Coldheart sat on the steps of Julatsa's refectory. The night was warm and peaceful. From outside the college, he could hear the odd snatch of life. A cart rattling over cobbles; horse hoofs echoing against buildings; a voice raised in greeting. He breathed in deeply, feeling his chest wound pull under its bandages. It was a stubborn one. Magic had knitted the muscle but his skin was still sore and tight. A mark of age, he supposed. A little like the grey flecks he'd found in his long braids.

He knew he shouldn't but he felt released. All the problems that Balaia still faced and for the first time in so long he and The Raven were not bound by honour or contract to do anything about them. He knew he should still care but he found he couldn't. Not at the moment. Not ever, probably.

There was tension in Julatsa as those who had fled began to return. The city's rulers still hadn't had the guts to come to the college. There would be trouble, he was sure of it. And beyond

this city, Dordover, Xetesk and Lystern presumably still fought. They'd battle themselves to a standstill. All too proud to sue for peace before the maximum blood was spilt.

He knew he should worry about where the country he loved was going but something was missing. Looking over at the Heart of Julatsa, around which would soon be constructed a new tower, he knew exactly what it was. It wasn't the country itself that was great and worth saving. It was the people he loved that wanted to live there. And they were dead or leaving. All of them.

Ilkar might have been the final straw for him but there were Sirendor, Ras, Richmond, Will and Jandyr too. All dead despite everything he had tried to do to save them. And The Unknown, Denser and Erienne were all thinking of their families across the

ocean, alive or dead. Thraun would go with them because The Raven were his family. Either that or return to the pack. He would not be drawn on the subject. That left Darrick. Hirad chuckled. If there was one man more wanted than the rest of The Raven, it was Darrick. He really had little choice.

So they would all be travelling back to take ship near Blackthorne with those very few elves that could be spared from the effort to shore up the college now the Heart was risen. Rebraal had to go. The Al-Arynaar needed their leader on Calaius. The same was true of Auum and the TaiGethen and of course, where he went, so did his Tai. Finally, Hirad would have bet everything he owned on the single ClawBound pair returning to the rainforests. They had been mourning for those of their kind lost since the end of the siege. That they missed their homeland and dieir kin was somediing he could read even in the eyes of the panther. They were outside now, staring up at the stars and knowing dieir positions were all wrong.

Hirad drained his goblet of wine and looked down at his plate. It was empty of the bread and meat he'd taken. Thinking it was probably time to turn in, he picked up the plate and turned to rise. Denser and The Unknown were just coming out of die refectory, a wineskin and goblets in hand. He smiled at diem both, the sharp-featured mage and the shaven-headed warrior.

'Where do you think you're going, Coldheart?' said The Unknown.

'For a refill?' ventured Hirad.

'Correct answer,' said Denser.

The two men sat either side of him. Denser filled his goblet.

'What's this, some sort of deputation?'

'No,' said The Unknown. 'We just thought it's a long time since we'd sat and drunk wine together. The others'll be out soon.'

'Time to toast the dead and move on, eh?' Hirad nodded at the Heart.

'Something like that,' replied Denser.

'Well, no sense in hanging about.' Hirad raised his glass. Tlkar. An elf without peer and a friend I will miss for ever.'

The goblets clacked together. Hirad drained his in one and nudged Denser for more.

'He'll be proud of us, you know,' said Denser, rubbing a hand across his neatly trimmed and still jet-black beard.

'He'd bloody better be. Almost saw the end of the lot of us, dragging that piece of rubble from its hole.'

Denser laughed loud. Out in the courtyard, the panther turned her head lazily. 'Ah, Hirad, ever able to bring everything down to its most basic level.'

'Best thing is, though, whatever happens to us, this is a memorial to him, isn't it?' said Hirad. 'I mean, it's only raised because of what he started us doing.' He sighed, heart heavy for a moment. 'Should have been here to see it though, shouldn't he?'

There was a silence, each man lost in memories.

'You ready to go?' asked The Unknown.

Hirad shrugged and looked up into The Unknown's flint-grey eyes. 'Well, it's not as if I've got much to pack.'

'That isn't what I meant.'

'I know.'

The Unknown punched him on the arm. 'So tell me.'

'That hurt.'

'Not as much as the next one will.'

Hirad eyed the bunched muscles beneath the smile. 'Actually, I was thinking about it before you two interrupted me. There's nothing keeping me here now. And I'm tired of fighting. Really. Look at all we've done. And the only monuments are those we have built for our dead friends. Nearly everyone else wants us dead too. Ungrateful bastards.'

'We thought we'd go tomorrow. First light,' said The Unknown.

Hirad raised his eyebrows. 'Are we fit for that? I'm talking about Erienne, of course.'

'She's fine,' said Denser. 'Physically at any rate. I think she just can't make up her mind which part of arriving back on Herendeneth she is looking forward to least. Seeing Lyanna's grave or getting taught about the One by Cleress.'

'We'll get south all right, will we?' asked Hirad. 'There's still a war on, you know.'

'Nothing escapes you, does it?' said Denser.

'Darrick picked a route. I agree with it,' said The Unknown. 'It'll

see us back to Blackthorne without much problem. Then all we have to do is wait for the Calaian Sun to put into the Bay of Gyernath.'

'So long as you're happy,' said Hirad.

'I am,' said The Unknown. 'But you know how it is. We don't move until you say.'

Hirad felt that familiar surge. Even on their way out of the country they'd fought to save from itself for so long, even on their way to retirement, The Raven was still working. He nodded.

'There's no reason to stay if we're all fit to travel.' He smiled and looked across at The Unknown. 'Thanks for asking.'

'You know how it is.'

'Yeah.' Hirad stood up and looked down into his goblet, seeing the ripples in the dark liquid. 'Where are the others? I feel the need for another toast to someone or other.'

Sha-Kaan turned a lazy roll in the air. Below him, the mists enveloped the valley of the Kaan Broodlands. Ahead of him, the plains of Domar and the dense steaming forests of Teras fled away beyond the encircling mountains of Beshara from which the dragon dimension took its name. The mountains that made his valley so rich and humid, trapping the moisture and heat.

He could hear the calls of his brood-in-flight, operating the patterns that kept intruders from entering the Broodlands. Now more than ever, they must not fail. Now more than ever, they were prone to attack.

Sha-Kaan blessed the strength of Hirad Coldheart and The Raven. He blessed their belief and determination, their energy and their courage. Without them, he would not have been here to lead his brood at this most critical time and their own belief would surely have faltered. And without Hirad in particular, he would not have been able to spend these last days in the healing streams of inter-dimensional space. To relax in the Klene, the melde corridor that was anchored at one end by the brood consciousness and at die other by the remarkable barbarian's, and there be tended by the Vestare. His servant race. Faithful, steeped in awe of their masters and living to serve under their protection. It was a pleasure he had thought denied him for ever.

Sha-Kaan felt the frightened excitement of a dozen brood-at-

spawn. Their time was upon them. The next cycle of light and dark would see new births for the Kaan to celebrate and protect. The energy of a birth could be felt far beyond the Broodlands, in the minds of their enemies. Such was the danger linked to the joy of every

birth. It was the reason the brood flew now, securing their borders, and would fly in even greater numbers very soon. The Kaan were ageing. They could not afford to lose any of their young.

Sha-Kaan pulsed out with his mind to his brood. His return had been like a birth to them and now of course they looked to their Great Kaan for guidance as they had done for so many cycles. He pulsed orders to be wary, to ensure the flight patterns were kept tight, and to keep the Kaan-in-flight changing and so keep them all fresh. And he pulsed harmony, calm and his confidence in living births to the brood-at-spawn.

Driving his wings hard for a dozen beats, he swept upwards, meaning to look down on his lands from the outer markers where his patrols circled, eyes and minds alert for early signs of enemies. He greeted them with barks and a pulse that warned against complacency.

Reaching his desired height, he turned into a gentle downward-spiralling glide, feeling the rush of the wind over his scales and fully extended wings. His eyes searched below, looking for anything he had missed, any gap that should be closed. He counted just on a hundred Kaan above the mist layer. There would be an equal number below it and twice that many at rest in chouls across the Broodlands.

It looked an impressive defence but it represented the immature and the very old in addition to those of fighting age. The Naik were strong. They knew Kaan birthings were close. He wondered whether they believed an attack worth the probable losses. They had so often proved an impossible brood to gauge. At once utterly, dismissive of rival broods' rights to land in Beshara and surprisingly concessionary and honest in alliance.

The Kaan had not experienced alliance with the Naik themselves but knew their ways from the Veret, a dying brood threatened and now defended by the Naik in a bizarre turn of attitude.

An attack depended on the Naik ability to defend their own homelands while trying to take the Kaan's. That meant new alliances

would have to be made. Sha-Kaan wished he had the time to visit the Veret to get some indication of likely force but they were too far distant.

Satisfied his flight organisation left no unseen access for their enemies, he sailed down faster. A rest in a choul was what he needed now to further ease his ageing muscles, not yet healed by his rest in inter-dimensional space; its coolness, darkness and companionship would be very welcome. But before that, he probed Hirad Cold-heart's mind. Across the uncertainties of inter-dimensional space and into Balaia, he let his consciousness wander.

He could sense the enemies that probed its enclosing membrane, looking for a way in. The Arakhe. Demons, the Balaians called them. An ever-present danger to every creature that inhabited the countless dimensions; and besides enemy broods, the only threat to the Kaan. Balaia was calm. The dimensional magic that had alerted the Arakhe had caused no lasting damage. The tears in space had been small and short-lived. And Hirad Coldheart was sleeping, his mind free though he did not know it.

Sha-Kaan withdrew, satisfied. Yet the density of the Arakhe surrounding Balaian space bothered him. Like they anticipated something. He could feel their minds like thorns in flamegrass. Unpleasant, unwelcome and unnatural.

He would keep close watch on them. Once the birthings were complete and the disruption to the brood psyche settled, he would have more time. Perhaps then he might build alliances of his own, do something about the Arakhe. Something terminal.

Barking his approach, he flew to a choul.

Dystran tried to calm himself before he entered Ranyl's private chamber. He took a moment to readjust his shirt and be sure his hair was smooth against his head. He slowed his breathing and hoped his face wasn't too red from his run. He nodded at the guard on the door who opened it for him. A wave of heat washed out from the dimly lit interior. He walked in.

To the left, the fireplace glowed hot, yellow and orange flames spreading beguiling shadows over walls and drapes. To the right, the light from a hooded lantern revealed Ranyl's bed and the woman

sitting beside it. She had one arm resting on the bed, her hand gripped by Ranyl's. At her side on a low table, a bowl and cloth.

Dystran had expected to hear the rasping of a man near his end but the room was quiet. Yet the atmosphere was thick with expectation, smelled sweet from bowls of infused herbs and petals and was hardly supportive of Ranyl's longevity. He moved quietly towards the bed.

'Thank you, my lady,' he said. 'Your tending has been most welcome these last days.'

After a moment's hesitation, the woman stood. She moved Ranyl's hand from hers, squeezed it briefly and leant in to murmur a few words before kissing him on the forehead. With head bowed, she hurried past Dystran, who did not miss the tracks of tears on her cheeks reflecting the firelight.

As he sat, Dystran had the overwhelming urge to run. Not to face what he knew he must. The sounds of fighting echoed across the dark city. Everything he knew and treasured was under threat. And here, breathing so quiedy he could hardly be heard, the man he needed most was slipping away from him.

He took Ranyl's hand in his and felt the fingers move weakly in his palm.

'Feeling tired, old dog?' asked Dystran quietly, concentrating on keeping his voice steady. So few days had passed since Ranyl had seemed strong, able to walk, sit up, eat. The suddenness of the change was brutal to see.

In the gloom, Ranyl's eyelids flickered and opened. His eyes, so recendy bright and full of determination, were dull and sunken. His mouth moved, breath a sibilant hiss over which his words were barely audible.

'. . . can't bear to see Xetesk attacked. Keep diem from us.'

'The Wesmen won't make it off die walls,' said Dystran gently. 'Rest easy. Hold on. See us victorious.'

'No, young pup. I'm tired.' He managed a brief smile. T will leave it to younger men. I was ... I was really only waiting until you came to say goodbye.'

Ranyl's voice was fading such that Dystran had to lean closer and closer. His words chilled the Lord of the Mount. He gripped the old man's hand, shaking it.

'No, Master Ranyl,' said Dystran. 'I need you to guide me. There is no one else I can trust.'

'You have been such a friend,' said Ranyl. 'And you are a great leader. You need no one.'

'No, Ranyl. Hold on. This pain will pass. You'll soon feel stronger.' ' .

But the words weren't true, he knew that. He could see it in the pallor of Ranyl's complexion, ghostly in the gloom. And he could smell it in the air.

Ranyl coughed weakly. 'Mourn me, but don't miss me.'

Dystran nodded, accepting. He smiled and placed a hand on Ranyl's cold forehead. 'Everything I have achieved is because of you. I will be in your debt for eternity.'

Ranyl chuckled. 'A fitting epitaph,' he said, his eyes brightening just briefly.

And then he was gone.

Dystran walked to the balcony shutters and opened them, admitting the cool' air of night. He saw fires towards the walls and could hear the sounds of battle and of panic beginning to grip the streets. He even fancied he could taste blood in the air.

Mostly, he felt isolation. Only one man could save Xetesk now. Unfortunately, it was him. For a time he let the tears fall, his mind focusing on the tortured screams of Ranyl's familiar as it faded to death after its master.

The prize was so close Tessaya could almost touch it. Men were bred tough in the Heartlands and he felt proud to fight next to them. The Xeteskians were falling back before him and his heart sang victory.

He had led his warriors in a hard drive right along the battlements. His axe ran red and his arms and chest were cut by his enemies. But now the turret was theirs. In front of him a warrior fell, skull crushed by a mace. Tessaya grabbed his collar as he went down, dragging him back. He strode into the space, axe carving through an upward arc left to right across his body. Its blade caught his enemy under the chin. His helmet flew off, his jaw shattered and his head snapped back, taking his body with it and striking those behind him.

Warriors surged forward, the noise intensifying in the enclosed space.

'Hold the far door,' ordered Tessaya, pushing men at it. 'The rest of you, let's take these stairs.'

Handicapped by the direction of the spiral, the Xeteskians were forced back quickly. Tessaya led his warriors down, taking the inside himself. His axe was in his right hand, sweeping in front of him.

As Tessaya knew it would, the Xeteskian retreat stopped at a landing. Orders were shouted up the stairs. In front of him, the terrified boys, for that was all they were, squared up. Outside, he heard the rare impact of a spell. He snarled and stepped away from the centre of the thread and gripped his axe in both hands. A warrior stood to his right, the pair of them filling the stairwell. Behind and above, the fighting continued on the battlements. He heard his warriors chanting as they drove onwards, their voices echoing down to lift his spirits even as they crushed those of whom he faced.

'You will die, boy, if you lift that blade against me,' said Tessaya into the impasse. He pitched his voice to carry further than the whelp he addressed; a quivering youth whose helm sat too large on his dirt-streaked face. 'But at least you will know more courage in death than those who command you. Where do they stand, eh?'

'Who . . . ?' The Xeteskian didn't know whether to ask or not, caught between fear and awe.

T am Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon tribes and ruler of the Wes-men,' he replied. 'And what a prize should you beat me. The time has come. Lay down your blade and be spared. Or die dreaming of being a hero.'

Tessaya didn't think the boy even had the courage to lift his sword in attack and in that at least he was mistaken. But in everything else, he was not. Deflecting the ill-learned strike and chopping downwards through the poorly armoured shoulder, he muttered a prayer that the boy be respected by the Spirits.

He stepped across the body, a chant erupting from his lips and taken up by the men around him. Invoking the Spirits of strength, of true aim and keen edge, it was a guttural sound, its rhythm in time with the strokes of his axe.

Tessaya paced forward, chopping up through the defence of one Xeteskian, sweeping left to eviscerate a second and back right and down to hack into the arm of a third. The warrior next to him, voice booming in song, moved in closer, forcing his enemy's guard down and butting him on the bridge of the nose. The Xeteskian sprawled backwards, flailing his arms, more of a danger to his comrades than the Wesmen.

Tessaya saw the fear in their eyes and the tremble of their limbs. Blood slicked the walls, the floor was covered in gore and the bodies of fallen Xeteskians and the air stank and steamed. The Lord of the Wesmen licked his lips and drove on, breaking them further with every step.

Chapter 3

None of Chandyr's experience had prepared him for this. He had fought Wesmen before but of course there had been the backing of mages able to break lines and obliterate enemies at will. And in combat with enemy colleges, the balance of spell power gave the warfare a symmetry that he could understand.

But here tonight, hand-to-hand and face-to-face, he was seeing ferocity that was simply awesome. The Wesmen were indefatigable. They were skilful. And they were cutting through his men like paper.

On his horse outside the lost turret, he saw men spill outwards, regroup and push in again. He heard the turret captain yelling for order and getting precious litde. The faces of those few around him were lined with fear. Either side, high up on the battlements, the Wesmen taunted his toothless forces. He had so few mages and the spells cast recently had been wasted. Now tfie chastened casters awaited his order in an arc around the turret. They wouldn't be kept long.

Chandyr had thought about riding back to the college again. But the mood was fragile and he couldn't afford to be seen leaving the batdefront. Instead he dismounted and turned the reins of his horse over to the nearest messenger.

Before he spoke, he took in the fires burning on the walls and those buildings onto which the Wesmen had managed to cast torches. He saw more and more join those already behind their makeshift wooden barricade on the batdements. And he didn't have to imagine the number who waited outside for the gate to be taken.

In the streets around him, the confidence of many city folk had given way to panic. People thronged the main roads, heading for the north gate and the college, no doubt to demand escape or

sanctuary. Dystran would not give them the latter. But by the Gods burning, he could buy them time to achieve the former.

His messenger waited expectantly, wincing as roars of triumph sounded from the Wesmen advancing towards the south gate tower along the battlements.

'Ride back to the college,' said Chandyr, handing the messenger his badge of command. 'Use my authority and speak only to Dystran himself. Tell him this:

'If he is to cast his spells it must be now. We are losing the battle for control of the south gate. He must give us more mage support or they'll be at the college before dawn. Got all that?'

'Yes, sir.'

Chandyr grabbed the messenger's arm. 'One more tiling. Tell him he does not need to cast his dimensional spells. We can hold on without them, at least. Go.'

Chandyr watched him mount up and ride away before turning to add his strength to die fight for Xetesk.

Spring nights could be chill and the hours before dawn were the coldest. But Sharyr hadn't known how lonely they could be until now, particularly not in the company of so many friends and enemies.

Of course it wasn't just this that set him alone. It was the awesome expectation placed upon him to succeed and the enormity of the risk he was being forced to take to achieve that success.

He and the dimensional team of twenty - hardly enough anyway -had rested in shifts while they made their calculations. They were looking for any edge they could give themselves. Something to provide focus yet minimise exposure to the power with which they toyed. By the time Dystran ordered them to the walls, they had found precious little. Hardly surprising. So little time had passed.

The urgency of the orders had frightened him and he'd led the team at a run from the catacombs. Much of the rest had been a blur of impressions. Voices clamouring. Armour clanking and grinding as soldiers ran beside them. The glare of fires against dark buildings. People running towards them, pushed aside to speed their progress. The smell of wood smoke. The cobbles beneath his feet. The

extraordinary din of battle that grew with every pace they took nearer the walls.

The college guard brought them to the roof of a building with clear line of sight up to the embattled walls. Commander Chandyr had joined them almost immediately. Sharyr missed his first words, transfixed by what he saw in front of him. A mass of warriors on the

battlements, bodies choking the street below. Fires in two guard turrets. And desperate defence on the ground. Xetesk under threat.

'. . . are not who I wanted here. Why are you here?'

'My Lord Dystran ordered us here in response to your messenger.'

T don't want your dimensional spells, Sharyr. You know my feelings.'

'Commander, Ranyl has died. Dystran wants to make a statement. We're all you have and we have instructions about which spells we will use.'

Chandyr nodded. 'Fine. Then do so carefully. Take out that turret. Destroy the stairway.'

'Commander, that kind of focus is not possible. The minimum strike area will cover left and right for twenty yards. And that assumes we can keep it tight. The dimensional alignment is not right.'

Chandyr regarded him blankly. 'You're talking to me as if I should care or understand. Fifty yards either side is Wesmen. Take them down too.' He shrugged. T asked for mage support and here you are so do what you have to do. But don't hurt a single Xeteskian.'

'Have your mages shield our forces,' said Sharyr. 'It's the only way to keep them safe.'

Chandyr spun round at a renewed roar from the turret. Xeteskians spilled into the street once again but this time could not drive back in. The first Wesmen set foot on Xetesk's soil.

'And you'd better do it quickly,' said Chandyr. 'Or they'll be up here too. Don't let me down.'

Sharyr watched Chandyr stride from the rooftop then turned to his team.

'You can see the target. You know the risks. Shut out everything.

We cannot afford to slip. Are you ready?' The chorus of assent was loud but anxious. 'Then we will begin.'

Sharyr felt a charge race through his body and lodge in his gut. The mage team gathered about him. He tuned to the mana spectrum and could see through the chaotic streams the dark outline of the walls. He began to focus, constructing the shape to pierce the fabric of the Balaian dimension to access the raw energy beyond.

One by one his mage team joined him. In the stark colour contrasts that made up the Xeteskian mana spectrum the deep blue mana stream gained intensity. Power surged through every strand.

Like all base magical constructions, this one was essentially simple. The shape was a shifting octagonal column no more than ten feet wide. At its head, gossamer threads wove a complex pattern that mimicked the flows of inter-dimensional space, allowing them to lock onto the chaos outside the Balaian dimension.

The column itself acted as direction for the power they were tapping and as a seal against that power spilling out uncontrolled. Where the column attached to the dimensional fabric was entirely at Sharyr's discretion. And because this spell was statement as well as destruction, he drove it high into the night sky, issuing the command that activated the threads just beyond a layer of thin cloud.

They felt the backward surge along the column, saw the shivers in the mana light. And that was just the start. With the threads fast on the fabric, Sharyr began to feed energy into the column. Half the team followed his lead.

'Brace,' he warned, his words carrying to them across the spectrum in sound and light. 'And expand.'

They pulled. And in the fabric of Balaia was torn a hole. Immediately, they felt the rush of the forces of inter-dimensional space, apparently grabbing at the hole, trying to force it wider. It was purely a reaction as chaos and order clashed. The mages were ready for it and used it. They allowed the tear to grow to optimum size and only then stiffened the borders, feeding in mana energy and locking it tight.

'That was the easy part,' said Sharyr. 'Column team, prepare. You know this isn't going to be easy to handle. Alignment team with me, keep your concentration if you keep nothing else. Let's go looking.'

The information given Xetesk by the Al-Drechar and Sha-Kaan

had allowed mages to draw a new dimensional map. They could predict with some accuracy the movement of those dimensions closest to Balaia. They also had some perception of the enormous number of dimensions crowding space. The old notion that all dimensions were somehow occupying the same small area of space had been disproved beyond reasonable doubt. Now it was about alignment. And the more dimensions aligned with Balaia at any one time, the more powerful the spell effect.

Sharyr's problem was that there was no alignment. Almost, but not quite. And while it was still possible to cast, the streams of energy would not be as focused and would be difficult to control.

Sharyr, using the combined energies of his team of nine, pushed the seeker pulse into the void, already knowing roughly what he would find. They were awaiting a four-dimension alignment. It was expected to begin the next midday. What Sharyr was presented with was a confusion of power streams, still in partial conflict though with a common broad direction given them by the partial alignment in which they were caught.

He could feel the pull of the distant dimensional shells and imagine their ponderous movement. Every heartbeat that passed brought the alignment closer but at this moment there was a problem.

The first and third shells were about in line, the latter moving slightly faster than the former. But the second shell was still way out of place though travelling quickly in relation to its peers. Currently, he couldn't sense the fourth shell at all.

'This is going to hurt,' he said. 'Brace yourselves.'

Lacking the natural focus alignment would bring, the mages would have to channel the power themselves while holding the sheath spell construct in place to avoid a casting without control. Without a certain end.

On Sharyr's command, the alignment team poured mana energy into the seeker pulse, changing its polarisation from repulsor to attractor. At once, the part-aligned streams fed into the seeker pulse. Sharyr felt the force thunder through his mind, a sudden and prolonged deluge of crudely directed energy. The seeker pulse bulged under the strain.

'Hang on!' Sharyr gasped, sensing the tension in those around

him. There was a roaring in his ears, reminiscent of a distant waterfall. 'Right, let's use it.'

The alignment team shortened the seeker pulse, dragging the inter-dimensional power with it. Sharyr knew that there was too much to control safely. It raged through his mind while he struggled to hold his concentration.

With the sound of air rushing to fill a void, the inter-dimensional force met Balaian space. It coalesced into thin discs, trailing smoke in their wake. Shaped by the minds of the mages and set spinning by nature. Tens, hundreds of them, cobalt blue and travelling at extreme speed, fled down the octagonal mana corridor. They bounced hard against its surface, the collisions increasing die stress on the structure further, to emerge from its protection to slam into ground, walls and men.

The Wesmen could see the spell approaching. Those at the base of the tower had some route of escape but they were the only ones.

The discs sheared into the tower, the ground surrounding it, and any flesh in their way over a sixty-foot spread. With a sound like a thousand metal spikes hammered into rock, they bit into the stone. Sparks flew, lighting up the night in garish relief. Dust was projected into the air, sections of the stonework cracked and crumbled. The tower shook under the impact.

On the ground, those Wesmen who hadn't reacted instantly were cut to pieces in moments. In front of them, the Xeteskian shield over the defenders bucked and twisted, its mages driven to their knees by the effort to keep it together.

Sharyr exhorted his mages to maintain their focus. Below them, their casting was scything the tower apart, shredding its stone, sending lethal fragments to every point of the compass. He fought the forces channelling through his mind, kept the polarity of the seeker pulse firm. It was he and his team who were responsible for reversing the flow when the time came.

But the drain on the alignment team was greater than any of them had imagined. The discs were further out of control with every heartbeat, crashing into one another and increasing their impacts on the column, which bulged under the pressure. And though the tower wasn't down, Sharyr felt he had no choice but to order the disconnection of the spell. He was the blink of an eye too late.

At the base of the column, multiple discs collided and scattered into its sides, threshing it with enough force to break the shape. Tattered in an instant, the base of the column was flayed apart. Wisps of mana clung to order for a few moments and were engulfed again in the mass. The sides of the column rippled and ripped upwards, chasing back towards the hole into space.

And spewing out unconflned, came the discs. Along a front hundreds of feet wide, they gouged into Xetesk's walls and buildings or collided in mid-air to scream away back into the city.

One plunged into his mage team, chopping two men down. The other mages lost their concentration. The column vanished completely and Sharyr clung desperately to the seeker pulse, feeling its power weaken.

'Reverse!' he shouted. 'Reverse!'

He tried to ignore everything around him. The wails of dying men on the walls and right by his side. The clouds of dust billowing into the night sky. The unfettered discs of pure cobalt brutality destroying the walls.

Dragging in everything he had left, Sharyr forced his will on the seeker pulse, switching its polarity. 'Push,' he gasped. 'Damn you, push.'

The building shook. Dimly, he heard a deep rumbling. The dust was in his nose and mouth and had forced itself into his eyes. He could feel the irritation and the tears but had to ignore them. He pushed against the tide of inter-dimensional energy, those that remained with him taking his lead. Around them, the storm continued. Next to the tower, the parapet collapsed, spilling Wesmen seventy feet to the streets. A series of detonations sounded. The discs had bulged into huge, harsh teardrops and they poured into the walls, the street, the tower and buildings all around. Only luck was keeping Sharyr and his team alive.

Sharyr gathered himself again, feeling the seeker pulse finally move under his control. 'Got you.'

Quickly, the movement gained momentum. Sharyr and the remains of his team pressed. The pulse whipped up into the night sky. Ahead of it, the teardrops lost their strength, unable to fight against the opposing force. Up to and through the hole went the pulse. And

the tear itself, without the energy flowing through it and with no spell keeping it open, shut hard.

Sharyr had no strength in his legs. He sagged to his knees, staring at the point in the night sky where the tear had been. It glittered blue. He frowned.

'Someone check that,' he said, gesturing upwards. 'That isn't right.'

He became aware that the silence following the end of the spell had given way to a growing tumult of voices and action. He dragged himself back to his feet and walked unsteadily towards the edge of the building to see what he had wrought in the name of Xetesk and its Lord of the Mount.

His heart chilled at what he saw through the clouds of dust and smoke blowing all around him. Bodies lay everywhere, few moving and many burning. Around them, Xeteskian soldiers hurried to fulfil Chandyr's barked orders. In front of him, the target tower was gone, rubble was all that remained. It had taken with it the parapets to either side. Stone had fallen clear across the street to destroy other buildings.

But there was far, far worse and the reason for Chandyr's urgent shouts became all too clear. And all Sharyr could do now was watch.

Truly the Spirits kept Tessaya alive for a greater purpose. The great purpose. That much was evident now. He had been blown from his feet when the first screaming lights from the sky had struck. Catapulted out of the tower doorway to sprawl in shadow under the parapet.

He had watched the Xeteskians' spell break their own walls and kill their own men even as it took brave warriors to the glory of death in batde. But he had once again been spared.

He had heard the crack of the failing walkway above him and scrambled to safety in a doorway while chaos descended. Mute, he had seen it collapse with the deaths of so many. He had seen the tower shiver and slide to the ground. He knew he shouldn't smile as the smoke and dust cleared in front of him. Indeed Riasu was surely among those dead. But in their attempts to break the Wesmen spirit, they had sealed their own dooms.

The walls of Xetesk were breached.

Chapter 4

His head fuzzy with the after-effects of too much red wine, Hirad led The Eaven from the college and city of Julatsa with the sun climbing high into a beautiful, clear spring sky.

He had made his peace with Ilkar. His anger at his friend's death was much diminished. It was time to move on and, despite the knowledge of their immediate destination, he wasn't sure where he wanted to move on to.

One thing he felt well able to do, though, was put as much distance between himself and the war as was physically possible. The Raven felt the same way, a feeling shared by many in Julatsa. But not all had their choice. Almost all of the elves were staying on for the time being. The threat from outside, though not as potent, was still present. And with the mage strength that much greater and the Heart beating strong once more, there was much restorative work that could now be done.

Some, though, had to return to Calaius. It was as he had surmised sitting on the steps of the college refectory the night before. Rebraal to gather together the remnants of the Al-Arynaar; and Auum to tackle the enormous task of rebuilding the TaiGethen order. With him went Duele and Evunn, ever his shadows. To complete the odd assortment came the one ClawBound pair to survive Balaia. They yearned for the touch of the rainforest and the calls of their kind. No one invited them to travel south. No one questioned them either. Hirad was just glad to have them nearby.

Their route to Blackthorne and thence to the Bay of Gyernath to await the Calaian Sun was of necessity going to be, initially at least, circuitous. They had decided to travel due east for a day and a half before turning south. Even then, they would have to travel carefully through the forests, what was left of them, and low hills that made

tip the eastern border of the mage lands. Darrick considered that <t<n though the focus of aggression would once again fall on Xi'U'sk, Dordovan patrols would be looking for The Raven, and Erlenne in particular. And they might well be backed by Lysternan forces. Once beyond the mage lands south, they would be able to breathe more easily but that was days away.

Hirad shook his head. The Raven, hunted by those they had fought so long to save. At least ordinary Balaians would still hold them in high regard, those that even knew who they were. He let a smile cross his face. Their fame was countrywide and no doubt embellished in story and verse in places they had never even been. But he wondered how many actually knew what they looked like.

It was a question that would be put to the test later in the day. Darrick knew of a hamlet that they should reach by late afternoon or early evening. A comfortable place to sleep and the chance to buy supplies before ten days in the open was an attractive prospect. They had taken very little from Julatsa. The Gods knew the city was struggling even to feed its own people let alone groups of ex-mercenaries.

With the ClawBound pair of tall, black-and-white-painted elf and sleek black panther ranging ahead and south-east, The Raven felt able to ride in the open, making good time over easy ground. Beside them ran the elven quartet, their regular long strides conserving energy and making the pace for the horses.

The first hours of their journey were peculiar for the almost complete silence in which they were conducted. There was none of the banter Hirad associated with The Raven riding to their next job, running from enemies or returning home from a fight. In every face he saw reflection, and felt a sense of loss himself.

Erienne was deep within herself-as she had been for much of the time after the battle to lift the Heart. The fact of Cleress's continued survival had been a source of great comfort but scared her more than she would admit. The elven Al-Drechar mage was instructing her even now in points of the One magic. It would mean exposing herself to more danger and Denser wasn't sure his wife was ready for it.

Erienne's introspection led Denser to the same state. He barely left her side when she was awake. And Thraun, who could sense so

much more than he could say, also rode close. Hirad had joked that he'd have shared Erienne and Denser's bed if he'd been allowed. No one had laughed.

Darrick, when left alone, descended to an anger he refused to let loose in word or action. But Hirad could see it in his eyes. He felt betrayed by those he had served so faithfully. He had placed the security of his college, city and country above his own for years and they had expressed their gratitude by giving him a death sentence. Hirad knew how he felt.

Only The Unknown carried anything approaching a good mood and the big man was riding by Hirad with a half-smile on his face.

'Not long now, eh, Unknown?'

'I hope not,' said The Unknown. 'You know when we left Heren-deneth and I waved them goodbye, I didn't think I'd see them again. It seems so long ago but so little time has passed.'

'Cleress has told them we're coming?'

The Unknown shook his head. 'No. And not because I want it to be a surprise. It's just that until we're on board ship, I won't let them believe we'll actually make it.' He turned to face Hirad. 'How hard it would be to know something was so close but then have it snatched from you.'

Hirad nodded. 'It's your choice.'

'And what about you, Coldheart? You're quiet. We've learned to worry about that. And this group could do with some more of your ill-chosen comments, I think. Not a great mood, is it?'

'That's because you don't know why, Unknown. You're heading for something. You have a target.' Hirad paused. 'You know how it was when we had retired at Taranspike Castle before Denser and Dawnthief buggered things up? Well, for me it's like that except I have no desire to fight. It's odd. I've got no clear idea what I want to do bar travel with you to Herendeneth but I know it's the right thing to do this time.'

'So it isn't like Taranspike at all, then, is it?'

Hirad chuckled. T don't think I said it right. I mean it's the end of The Raven, isn't it?'

'And you never thought you'd live to see the day.'

'No, Unknown, I always thought I'd live to see the day, I just didn't ever know when the day would be. Funny thing, even when

we were apart for those five years after we closed the noonshade rip, I somehow didn't think that was the end.'

The Unknown smiled. 'And now there's no prospect of anyone wanting us, is there?'

'That's it exactly,' said Hirad. 'I'm just not sure how I should feel.'

'Let me ask you something. Was it the prospect of fame and fortune that kept you fighting?'

'At the start, of course it was. But not lately. Now it's all about being with The Raven and fighting for the people I love, dead or alive.'

'And had you wanted to fade into gentle retirement or did you want to be feted everywhere you went?'

Hirad shrugged. 'A bit of both, if I'm honest. Not much chance of being feted now though, is there?'

'Not here,' agreed The Unknown. 'But on Calaius they respect us for what we did. And elves have longer and better memories than Balaians, it seems.'

'Think I should go and live there?'

'It's a thought. Put it this way. Our time, The Raven's time, is over. We have to face the fact that we're a little creaky, not as fast as we were. More than that, we're unpopular with Balaia's power brokers. But we've never reneged on a contract and we've never been beaten. We've preserved all that we can both here and on Calaius. We've made a difference. No one can take that from us. So I'm saying go and live somewhere you can have peace but keep in touch with your memories. The elves will provide that for you. Besides, I think Herendeneth would bore you rigid. You and Darrick both.'

Hirad laughed. 'Yeah, can't see us tending the gardens till we die.'

'Exactly. You aren't cut out for a quiet life. Something will find you, mark my words.'

'So long as it isn't sharp.'

Dystran's head ached with lack of sleep. That and the sound of EarthHammers destroying every building surrounding the college for forty yards beyond the cobblestones. His familiars, those that were left, were harrying the Wesmen who had no defence against them. But they were so few and could do little more than irritate. They seemed to have lost their capacity to terrify and Tessaya - he had seen the Wesmen Lord prowling the shadows at dawn - had quickly worked out that what could not be killed could at least be caught and trapped. Already the stones and timbers of Xeteskian houses were pinning two of the thralled demons to the ground.

With the sun halfway to noon, Dystran stood on the walls of the college above the gatehouse, having just completed another circuit. Wesmen surrounded his college. Unbelievable. The spells and arrows kept them at a safe distance for now; and the CobaltFury had made them wary, but Tessaya would wait until he deemed them weak enough and attack again.

When the tower had collapsed, tearing holes in the walls, the city defence had quickly folded and terror had gripped the streets. Every soldier and mage had fled back to the college, Wesmen chasing them down. The south gates stood open, under the control of the enemy. The other gates to the city were also in Wesmen hands though they remained closed.

The city populace had nowhere to run. The Wesmen had herded them away from the gates, the spell barrage had kept them from the college and so they cowered in their homes, not knowing whether they would live or die. Dystran knew the answer. The attitude of the Wesmen had changed. The only people Tessaya wanted dead were inside the college.

Dystran turned to the duty officer standing by him.

'Marshal your spell reserves well. When he attacks, I don't want to find all my mages having to rest.'

'My Lord.'

The Lord of the Mount hurried down the steps from the gate tower and across the courtyard to the tower complex. Those he had ordered to provide him with their current situation awaited him in the cavernous banqueting hall. Three men, two exhausted, one in old age, awaiting his pleasure in the chill room. They sat at one end of the high table near a fire hours dead. Light streamed through the dark stained windows but provided precious little in the way of warmth. Dystran's footsteps echoed hollow as he approached them. They stood on seeing him but he waved them down impatiently, taking the steps to the platform two at a time.

'I seem to be holding such meetings with monotonous regularity,' he said. He sat in his chair and laid a hand on the arm of the one adjacent, squeezing its upholstery. Ranyl's absence made the room truly cavernous.

'May I add my condolences to those of the mage community for the passing of Ranyl. He was a great man,' said Chandyr, his head bandaged, an oozing cut on his left cheek.

'And I would consign him to the next life in peace!' Dystran thumped the arm of his chair.

'We will prevail,' assured Chandyr.

'Will we?' Dystran snapped. 'And what leads you to that happy conclusion? Our astonishing defence of our city walls or our ability to demolish our own warehouses and civic offices? Commander Chandyr, we have exchanged one siege for another and I must say that I found the former far more agreeable. More spacious. I fear that our chances for victory lie not in arms but in spells. Prexys, what of our casting strength?'

The old Circle Seven mage scratched his head and allowed a small smile to cross his face. 'As Ranyl would undoubtedly have said, we have had easier times for our stamina reserves and for the security of our dimensional gateway for their replenishment.'

Dystran nodded. 'But he is not here, though your thoughts are welcome. How long do we have before Tessaya knows we are spent enough for him to attack?'

Prexys sighed. 'He is a clever man. He probes close enough to force casting almost continually but he is not losing men at the rate we need. You know how depleted our mage strength is. We can cast at our current expenditure for another day at the most before it becomes apparent we are struggling. And with the dimensional team out of the picture temporarily, we have nothing else to throw at them except our few remaining soldiers.'

'I see.' Dystran sucked his lip and turned to face Sharyr. He and fifteen of the team had made it back to the college. All were resting bar him and he was fit to drop, his face not washed clean of the dust of the walls. 'And why are you out of the picture, Sharyr? I would have thought a day plenty enough to ready yourselves for a decisive casting.'

Sharyr's eyes widened. He shivered. 'You can't ask us to do that

again. You saw what happened. The alignment isn't there. We cannot contain the energy.'

'They are already through the walls, Sharyr,' said Dystran. 'Scatter the power wherever you choose. Destruction of buildings is a small price to pay for all of our lives, surely?'

'With respect, my Lord, you don't understand.'

'I understand that alignment closes with every passing heartbeat. I understand that fifteen rested men can and will cast on my command if it becomes necessary. I understand that there is no price I am not willing to pay for the survival of this college.'

'Even its destruction?' Sharyr raised his voice.

'Well now, Sharyr, if it were destroyed, it would hardly survive, now would it?'

'Damn you, don't patronise me!' shouted Sharyr, shooting to his feet. 'We were not enough before and we are not enough now.'

'You will not-'

'There is residue where the connection with inter-dimensional space was made. Something of the tear remains, I'm sure of it.'

Dystran paused and frowned. 'What are you trying to tell me?'

'That we may have caused permanent damage, my Lord,' said Sharyr, calming a littie and sinking back into his chair. 'And that casting again might cause us serious problems. You see, my Lord, if there is still the residue of a tear, I have no idea how to close it.'

'We had a tear in our skies once before, as you will recall. It could have led to an invasion of dragons. Please tell me this is different.'

'Oh, quite different, my Lord,' said Sharyr. 'There is no hint of a link to any other dimension at this stage. I'm just currently at a loss how to deal with it.'

'Then I suggest that you rest now, Sharyr. And when you are rested, see that you investigate what you have left in my sky. I will have my spell ready, with you or without you. Because when I pay my last respects to my dear friend Ranyl tomorrow night, I will have peace and not a horde of Wesmen vermin battering at my door.' Dystran smiled thinly and saw the fear in Sharyr's eyes. T trust I make myself clear.'

The village of Cuff was a setdement of probably fifty houses and farms nestled in a shallow and sheltered, tree-lined valley. Grazing

animals ranged free up and down its length, crops were sprouting through fertile earth. To look at Cuff, it was clear the Nightchild storms had hardly touched it. The scene before them was at odds with much of the rest of Balaia given war and so many displaced people.

While farmers worked their land and the odd fisherman netted the free-flowing river on which the village stood, others on horseback patrolled its borders and guarded the crests of the valley east and west. Two rough watchtowers had been built, visible at either end of the village, looking out north and south along its single track.

The Raven approached at an easy trot, the elves running beside them in the late afternoon sun. The ClawBound had disappeared. Hirad's guess was they were already downwind of all the livestock and horses. In the trees to the south, hunting.

'Times are hard and people are desperate,' said The Unknown. 'We'd be the same. Let's tread carefully, Raven.'

'What do you think about the guards? Mercenary or local?' asked Hirad.

'Soldiers,' said Rebraal. 'Well armed. Used to armour.'

'We probably know them,' said Hirad.

'That's not necessarily a good thing,' said The Unknown. 'Let's be prepared. Just don't look like you are.'

There was a price on The Raven's capture and return to Lystern or Dordover. Probably a very high price at that.

'I'll keep my hand just far enough from my sword to be of no use if there's trouble,' said Hirad.

'You know what I mean.'

Hirad smiled. He glanced meaningfully at the TaiGethen moving fluidly by him. Even without their faces painted, he found it hard to imagine them anything less than fully prepared. Readiness oozed from every pore.

They watched the mercenaries gather at the head of the village to meet them. It wasn't an overtly threatening gesture but a statement of intent nonetheless.

'There are seven. Four swordsmen split two and two on horses. Three behind. Two mages, one archer,' said Rebraal.

'Hirad, watch the right-hand side. Rebraal, Auum, look for others

joining. I'll watch left. Thraun, back me up, Darrick to Hirad. Denser, prepare HardShield, Erienne, SpellShield.'

The Unknown's words calmed them to focus. No one moved a muscle in response. No hand strayed towards a weapon yet they all had their targets. It was enough.

At twenty yards distance, a strong voice sounded out at them. In the fields and on the river, all action had ceased.

'Dismount and walk, strangers.'

A moment's hesitation.

'As he says,' said The Unknown. The Raven dismounted. His voice lowered to a mutter. 'Mark the far left, hand to his sword. Archer is loaded and tensed. No reaction, Raven. These are not our enemies. Yet.'

They slowed, the elves falling naturally into narrow order with them, sensing the threat they might otherwise pose. The Unknown brought them to a halt five yards from the first mercenary, who they took to be the leader.

'What would you have us do?' asked The Unknown.

'State your business.'

'Rooming and food for the night. Stabling for our horses and supplies for the journey in the morning. We have coin for all we need.'

The man in front looked them over slowly, appraising. He lingered over the elves. Hirad took the opportunity to weigh up the mercenaries. They appeared capable enough. Confident, at ease. Hirad raised his eyebrows. One of the mages was an elf. Echoes of the past.

'Food is short, costs are high,' said the mercenary leader. He was a large man, carrying a two- handed sword across his back.

The Unknown shrugged. 'We can cover your costs.'

The leader nodded. 'We'll see. Enter. Find rooms where you can though I would suggest Ferran's barns and house over there is your best bet. You'll pay in advance for everything. We don't appreciate late-night chases, if you understand me.'

'Perfectly,' said The Unknown. He relaxed his face. 'We're no threat to you. We are just passing.'

'See it stays that way. One more thing. You will not unsheathe swords in this village. We are a peaceful community.'

'But it hasn't always been that way, I take it?'

The leader shook his head, indicating his men move aside to let them through before he replied.

'A lot of refugees have passed this way from the mage lands, and before them we had them from as far east as Korina and as far south as Arlen.' He paused. 'Not all of them would take "no" for an answer. That's why we're here now.'

The Raven led their horses into the village, angling for the indicated farm on its eastern edge. The elves followed them, their suspicion plain.

'What do you make of it?' asked Hirad.

'Well, they aren't faces I recognise,' said The Unknown. 'And they clearly don't know us, which is a blessing. I think we shouldn't get involved.'

'I don't know,' said Hirad. 'I don't like the set-up. Think about it. Mercenary teams are being paid very good money to fight for the colleges or side with baronial defence. This lot? How can they possibly earn enough from a place this size to make it worthwhile?'

'Ask the farmer, why don't you?' said Denser.

'I will. Let's get sorted out first though.'

There was precious little space but it served them well enough. Denser and Erienne had the one empty room in the farmhouse. Ferran spread it with straw and blankets. The rest of them were given shelter in the two barns, one for grain storage, the other part stables, part hayloft. It was serviceable though the price was ruinous.

The Raven plus Rebraal gathered around Ferran's prodigious kitchen table once the horses were unsaddled and Auum and his Tai had taken their leave. Not all of them had seats but there were enough places to rest and enjoy the thick vegetable stew and tough rye bread

served by Ferran's daughter, a girl barely into her teenage years but with eyes that had already seen a long hard life.

Ferran was a humourless middle-aged man. His hands were cal-lused and split from many years working hard cold earth. His chest was a barrel and his eyes were deep set in a weathered face.

'Long journey, is it?' he ventured of his guests.

'Long enough,' conceded Darrick. The ex-General still managed to look neat despite their time on the road, his young face already clean of grime and his brown curls shaken free of dust.

Ferran nodded, apparently gleaning everything he needed from the General's brace of words. 'Well, it'll be a comfortable night. No trouble.' His eyes glinted. 'We're protected.'

'So we see,' said Hirad. He leaned forwards, arms resting on the table, hands clasped together in front of his bowl. 'Treat you well do they?'

'I'm begging your pardon?'

'You've bought their services,' Hirad explained. 'Are you getting what you expect?'

Ferran thought on the question, aware all eyes were upon him.

'They keep us alive,' he said. 'We'd been raided. Three times. They offered us protection for a consideration.'

'Which is?' asked The Unknown.

'Well now that's a deal between'

'Which is?'

Recognise him or not, no one refused The Unknown Warrior.

'They keep us alive,' he repeated. 'And safe. We carry on, they take the rest. It's right.'

'They take all your profit?' Denser blew out his cheeks. 'There's your answer, barbarian.'

Ferran nodded.

'And no doubt food and lodging is part of the deal,' said Hirad. 'This is some easy deal.'

'It goes without saying.' -

'But the war is as good as over,' said Hirad. 'When were you last threatened or attacked?'

'They say there is still danger,' said Ferran. 'They keep us alive,' That sparkle was in his eyes again. 'And you don't question the best.'

'And that's what they are, is it?' Hirad couldn't help but smile.

'Well yes,' said Ferran. He looked at them all, imploring them to understand. 'Don't you recognise them?'

'Should we?'

'Of course.' He stood tall. 'They are The Raven.'

'Oh,' said Hirad, feeling his skin crawl. 'Are they indeed?'

Chapter 5

'Hirad, sit down,' barked The Unknown Warrior. 'Let's decide how to deal with this.'

'I'll tell you how we deal with it,' said Hirad. 'We go outside, call them out and take them down.'

'Calm down, Hirad,' said Darrick. 'We can't just run out, swords waving. It's an unnecessary risk.'

'It might not mean much to you, General, but these bastards are trading on our name to bleed this village dry. I will not see our reputation ruined by bandits.'

Hirad's head was thumping, his body tense with the frustration boiling within him. Outside, people who believed in The Raven were being taken for everything they had when, more than ever, they needed every scrap of fortune they could lay their hands on. Perhaps their fortune was about to change. But what really made Hirad seethe was the bad taste that would be left in the mouths of these people whenever The Raven was mentioned again.

'We can't just walk out there and kill them,' said Denser.

'Why not?' Hirad jabbed a finger at Ferran. The farmer and his daughter had frozen at the exchange, their mouths slack and eyes widening. Their disbelief at what they were witnessing grew with every heartbeat. 'These people have been made to think that it's right that The Raven should take from them anything they want because of who they are. That's never been our way. It's a betrayal of all that we stand for. Someone needs to be taught a lesson.'

'We were mercenaries too,' said Denser.

'Yeah, and we were paid a fair price to fight. A good price because we were the best. People who hired us understood the rules. But this . . . this is robbery and I'm not having it.'

He moved towards the door.

'Hirad, where do you tliink you're going?'

'I'm going to demonstrate who The Raven really are. Back me up, why don't you?'

T know the hurt you feel,' said The Unknown. 'I feel it too. We all do. But we do things a certain way. That, as you are so fond of telling us, is why we're still alive. And now it's your turn to play by the rules. Sit down and listen. Whatever we do, we do as The Raven.'

The Unknown didn't have to raise his voice to command complete authority. Hirad paused, nodded and returned to his seat.

They did not emerge until dusk. The last vestiges of the day's light clung to the tops of the valley but the village was cast largely in shadow. The Raven had talked while the afternoon waned, not letting Ferran light lanterns or a fire in his kitchen. They had seen the impostors patrolling the streets, still on horseback. And from the rear windows of the house had watched them trot past regularly. While not exactly prisoners, it was clear The Raven were not to be given licence to roam Cuff at will.

The leader had visited them once, to check they were settled in and to ask after the whereabouts of the elves. The Unknown had simply shrugged and intimated they had continued on southwards. Without evidence to the contrary, the man had withdrawn.

Ferran had confirmed that there were indeed seven of them, the number popularly associated with The Raven. Hirad wasn't sure they had convinced him that they were the genuine article. What he did know was that the moment they left the house, Ferran was running for his neighbours to set the rumour spreading, his daughter heading in the opposite direction. They were fulfilling expectations perfectly.

The Unknown led them, Hirad to his right, Darrick and Thraun left. Erienne and Denser were behind them. The track through the village was quiet but the four men who had been paying particular attention to the farmhouse now rode in from front and back, intercepting them as they reached the street. Thraun dropped back to cover any threat from the rear.

Neither pair of riders had any presence. They were uncertain, nervous and looking to each other to make the first move. The Raven made it for them.

'Better call your leader down here,' said The Unknown. 'You've got a problem.'

The Raven had weapons sheathed but both Erienne and Denser were ready with shield spells should the need arise. In front of them, a heavy-set man with both hands on the pommel of his saddle spoke.

'He'll be along presently, I have no doubt. Now, what is this problem we have?'

'You all need to hear what we have to say. All seven,' said The Unknown.

Hirad smiled unpleasantly. 'Yeah, six men and an elf. You're a little behind the times.'

'Listen, you don't need to test yourselves against us,' said the heavy-set man, frowning in Hirad's direction. 'It isn't worth your while and we have no wish to spill your blood.'

'Well, that's comforting,' muttered Denser.

The second pair of riders rode around to the front of the standoff. Hirad could hear more hoof beats coming up the village. To his left, a door opened and a man ran across the street, not pausing to knock on the door of the house opposite before barging in.

'Which one are you, then?' asked Hirad of the heavy-set man.

T am Hirad Coldheart,' he said without hesitation.

'I'd heard he was better-looking,' replied Hirad, no humour in his voice.

'Stop it, now,' said The Unknown, turning to him.

The remaining impostors rode up along the street, doors opening with regularity behind them now. The archer unslung his bow as soon as he reined in, the leader trotting calmly to the front of the group.

Looking at him again, Hirad could see immediately who he had modelled himself upon. In fact, he was surprised he hadn't already noticed, the likeness was that obvious. He supposed he just hadn't been looking. Shaven-headed, broad-shouldered and strong-faced. The two- handed blade on his back was something else that should have pricked his memories.

'Don't fancy yours much, either,' he said.

The Unknown glared at him.

'What is it I can do for you?' asked his double in a passable impersonation.

'Several things,' said The Unknown. He glanced around him, looked past the impostors and along the street. 'Seems we've drawn quite a crowd. Good. Here begins the lesson.'

'Get back to the farmhouse,' said the leader.

'Be quiet,' said The Unknown. 'And listen. It might just save you.'

The sounds of swords being pulled from scabbards echoed across the instant's silence. The Raven followed suit instantly, forming up into their trademark chevron.

'Shield up,' said Denser and Erienne together.

'I suggest you lower those weapons,' said the bandit leader, the only man among them whose sword was not drawn. 'You will prove nothing by taking us on.'

'On the contrary,' said The Unknown. 'We will prove what we must.'

'Which is what? That you can beat The Raven?'

'No, my apparently blind double. That we are The Raven.'

A ripple ran around the villagers close enough to hear and spread quickly to those who could not. The crowd, now more than forty, bunched and moved forward a pace. But the men, women and children still kept a respectful distance.

Hirad watched the impostors stare at them, trying to gauge if The Unknown could be telling the truth.

'Look hard,' growled Hirad. 'Believe.'

The leader snorted, straightened in his saddle. 'Look at you,' he said. 'Just six. One a woman. No elf. And you,' he pointed at The Unknown Warrior. 'A little old aren't you? And if you had heard the stories, you would have a two-handed blade. A pale imitation. It's been fun. Now it's time you left before we run you down.'

'But that's the trouble with stories, isn't it?' said The Unknown, his face a mask, while Hirad felt his own burning with renewed anger. 'They don't take account of the passage of time. We have not fought in line for six years and in the troubles that have followed, even we have lost friends.'

'There is no elf because Ilkar is dead,' said Hirad, staring down the elven mage. 'No one lives on his name. No one.'

'All right, Hirad,' said The Unknown. 'So you see the problem we have. We cannot let you simply walk away. You have taken our name

and used it for profit. And that is not the worst of it. You have betrayed what The Raven stand for and believe in. We were mercenaries, not parasites.'

'And you expect these people to believe that you, not we, are The Raven?'

'I don't much care who they think we are,' said The Unknown. 'All they need to know is that you are not The Raven.'

His voice was pitched to carry to the villagers. Hirad heard the mutterings of conversation. The impostors' heads all turned, their anxiety rising.

'You surely don't believe them, do you?' demanded the leader.

Unexpectedly, Ferran stepped from the small crowd.

'We pay you to keep our village free of undesirables,' he said. 'If they are such, do your jobs. Get rid of them.'

His words were greeted with assent from those around him.

Hirad grinned. 'Yeah, Hirad,' he said. 'Take me on. Run me out of the village.' He spat on the ground in front of him, enjoying the tension that grew in the space between them.

'I'll tell you what's going to happen,' said The Unknown. 'You're going to give back every coin you have taken from this village. You'll also leave them your horses because you are walking away from here. Your return will be to your graves.'

'Not a chance,' said the leader, tone dismissive but fear edging into his expression. He was eyeing The Unknown ever more closely, the doubt eating at him.

'Your alternative,' said The Unknown, 'is not to leave here at all. Mind you, since you're The Raven, that threat won't impress you much, will it?'

Hirad saw the band wavering. He knew why. In front of them was unshakeable belief born of fifteen years of winning. The Raven, standing quite still, did not and would not flinch. Their adversaries, even with the advantage of being mounted, were losing the battle of wills. It was what separated The Raven from everybody else. Always had.

'There is only one Raven, and you aren't it,' said Hirad.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The Unknown's blade struck the ground in front of him.

'No time to debate,' he said. 'Get off your horses now.'

'Boss?'

There it was, the firstvocal crack in the facade. The impostors' leader scowled. Then he swallowed and looked back at The Unknown, hesitant.

'You're out of time,' said The Unknown. 'Dismount.'

Tap. Tap. Tap.

'Go,' snapped the leader.

He kicked the flanks of his horse. Startled, the animal sprang forward. The Unknown reacted instantly, diving forward and left. Hirad mirrored him right, both men rolling to their haunches. The Unknown was confronted by a wall of horseflesh on the move. Two others had followed their boss and were right on top of Thraun and Darrick. Hirad surged to his feet and grabbed at the arm of the mounted man in front of him. He pulled hard.

'Mage casting,' warned Darrick.

'Shield down,' said Denser. And in the next instant, 'Got him.'

Men tugged hard on reins, horses reared and whinnied, dust was kicked into the air. Swords flashed in the dying light. Thraun roared. Metal clashed. A single arrow flew. There was a shout of pain.

Hirad kept on pulling, unsaddling the man. His horse turned sharply, its head butting Hirad, sending him stumbling. The man scrambled to his feet to face his smiling double.

'So, Hirad,' he said, beckoning him on. 'Let's see if you measure up to the real thing.'

The man lunged forwards, thrusting to Hirad's open side. The barbarian switched his blade between his hands, blocked the attack aside and drove an uppercut into his enemy's exposed chest.

'Didn't think so.'

Hirad left him to bleed to death and turned back to The Raven, slapping the riderless horse away. From the back of the group, the elf had detached and was spurring his horse towards the gathered villagers.

'Oh no you don't,' breathed Hirad and set off after him.

The mage cast, his ForceCone meeting Erienne's implacable shield. Denser's focused Orb drove him from his horse to die screaming in flame on the dry earth. Thraun and Darrick had stopped the fledgling charge of two of the group, and, like The

Unknown, had hands on reins or bridles, keeping themselves out of strike range in front of their enemies' horses.

The last rider broke and galloped away to the north of the village and open ground, abandoning his comrades to their fates. The Unknown beckoned the leader down and waited while he drew his sword. Beside him, Darrick and Thraun killed effordessly.

'Are you who you say you are?' asked the leader.

The Unknown nodded, his sword tapping again. 'At least you will have faced me.'

The leader brought his sword to ready. The Unknown ceased his tapping, made nonsense of his double's ponderous defence and skewered his heart. 'But not for long.'

Hirad sprinted through the crowd and after the elf. 'Get back here, you bastard. Face me! Face Ilkar!'

He would never catch him but he ran on anyway, hoping for a slip, anything. A shadow moved against the buildings at the end of the village and leapt unerringly. The riderless horse galloped on a little way before losing momentum. On the ground behind it, Hirad saw Auum's single thrust. He stopped running, smiled and walked back to The Raven.

'What about the other one?' asked Hirad.

'Leaving one to tell the tale can't hurt.'

He stooped and cleaned his blade on an impostor's clothing, sheathing it and walking towards the villagers. Hirad glanced around. So easy. So effortless.

'Not much of a security force, I wouldn't have thought,' he said to Darrick.

The General, one hand pressed against his opposite shoulder, tried to smile.

'No. Can you help me with this?'

He lifted his hand. The arrow had struck him just under the collarbone. Darrick had snapped off the shaft to leave a couple of inches remaining.

'That was careless,' said Hirad.

'Denser let his shield down,' said Darrick. 'No blame intended.'

'Indeed I did,' said Denser, coming to his side. 'The least I can do is sort you out. Hirad, why don't you talk to our new friends or something?'

Hirad shrugged and wandered off after The Unknown. Some of the villagers were walking into the combat area, staring dumbly at the bodies and blood.

'Looks like you've got yourselves some new horses anyway,' said Hirad. 'Hope you don't mind clearing up. Think of it as payment.'

He saw the odd nod and smile but there was wariness amongst the villagers.

'Hey,' he said. 'You didn't need them. And they weren't who they said they were. They deserved it. They were damaging the reputations of friends I have lost.'

The Unknown was standing with Ferran. The farmer was frowning.

'And what will you do now, take their place?'

The Unknown shook his head, smiling. 'We'll move on in the morning, like we said.'

'Are you The Raven?'

'Does it matter?'

'We have tales to tell,' said Ferran.

'Fair enough.' The Unknown looked across at Hirad, who shrugged. 'Yes, we are The Raven. Very different from the tales you've been told, I expect. We're tired, we're wanted by both sides in the war and all we want to do is leave Balaia and hang up our swords.'

'Leave?' Ferran's eyebrows raised.

'We've done all we can,' said Hirad. 'And there are too many out there who will thank us by having us locked up or executed. Draw your own conclusions.'

Around them, the crowd stood mute. Not quite believing what they were seeing, what they had heard, or what they were hearing right now. Hirad couldn't help but chuckle.

'None too impressive-looking, are we?' he said. There was a little laughter in the crowd. On an impulse, he continued. 'But we couldn't let them go. We couldn't. So many of those they were mimicking are dead friends. And I will not stand by while their memories are sullied by this sort of filth, and while the deeds of those with us now are ignored.' He gestured at the corpses. One, his double, still breathed. Hirad hoped he was being heard. He continued.

'We lost Ras at Taranspike Castle, Sirendor Larn was poisoned by a Xeteskian assassin and Richmond died in Black Wings' castle. All more than six years ago now but they are the names you have been told, are they not?'

There was a murmur in the crowd. Heads were inclined. They hung on his every word.

'Yet there were so many more. Jandyr, who died on the fields of Parve; poor Will Begman, terrified from his life by the touch of a demon. Aeb, the Protector who sacrificed his soul to The Raven. And Ilkar. Ilkar who even in the act of his death, saved the rest of us. That is what The Raven is. That is who we are and what those of us who remain represent.' He indicated them one by one. 'Erienne; Denser; Thraun; Darrick; The Unknown Warrior. And me, Hirad Coldheart, lucky enough to have stood with them all.' He stopped, aware that he was welling up and that his voice was in danger of breaking.

'So,' he said and clapped his hands together, smiling as he swallowed at the lump in his throat. 'Do you have ale and wine here?'

'That we do,' came a voice from die crowd.

'Good. Then anyone who wishes, join me in raising a tankard to The Raven, all of us. I'm buying.'

The Unknown turned to Ferran as the crowd broke into excited conversation and set off as one to the tavern. 'Is that a good enough tale for you to tell?'

Ferran nodded. 'His heart speaks, doesn't it?'

'Always,' said The Unknown. 'Hey, Coldheart, get over here.'

Hirad strode towards him and found himself enveloped in The Unknown's arms.

'Well said, Hirad. Well said.'

Chapter 6

Tessaya ducked as another FlameOrb smashed into the rubble of a building behind him, its deep blue flame gorging on whatever wood it could find. The garish light it cast threw harsh shadows on the walls and ground around him. He ordered another attack on the gates.

Conservatively, he reckoned he had lost a third of his men to Xeteskian sword and spell; most of them when the tower and parapet had collapsed the previous night. Riasu was dead, so were at least two other tribal lords. Tessaya himself was bandaged along one arm, cut and burned in four places he could feel and probably others he couldn't.

But the belief of the Wesmen was unwavering. Here they stood, in front of Xetesk's college gates, night full around them and the defenders increasingly desperate as their strength ebbed away.

Tessaya concentrated much of his efforts on the gates though he had tribesmen all round the walls under command of their tribal lords. The tactic was simple. Hit and run. Force them to use spell and arrow. Keep them from consolidating in one place. Fear nothing. Not even the winged demons, impervious to the kiss of metal. Even they could be dealt with if the will prevailed.

Tessaya glanced right. One of the creatures was pinioned beneath the rubble its masters had created. It cursed and spat, struggled and shifted. But the four warriors guarding it simply piled on more stone. It would not escape and its humiliation undermined it. Without fear as a weapon, it was diminished.

His warriors charged the gates with the battering ram they had built outside the walls of the city. An oak trunk with branches thick as a man's leg. Beside the twenty who carried the ram ran twenty more carrying thick bark shields above their heads. And beside

them, archers fanned out, four on either side. And all around the walls, more teams with trunks and ladders, roared on by their tribes.

The noise of song and shout sent a thrill through Tessaya every time he heard it. It was the call of the Wesmen to victory and it filled him with joy. On the walls, the defenders responded. But as it had been with every attack through the night, they were holding back because they didn't have the spells or arrows to do anything else.

The ram clattered into the centre of the doors, his tribesmen flailing at the familiars who flew in amongst the arrows. Splinters flew, timbers groaned and the spells that strengthened the doors sparked. Arrows and rocks poured down. Three men fell. The ram reversed and simultaneously the familiars withdrew. FlameOrbs and IceWind drove into the bark shields. Warriors screamed and toppled among the fallen of earlier raids. There was no quarter here. The dead would lie uncollected.

The ram went in again and this time Wesmen archers were close enough to fire. Shafts skipped off the walls, chipped shards from the crenellations. Some found their targets. Since the zenith of the night, the defenders had not had the capacity to shield their own men with magic. It was one more indication of their weakening. And every blow of the ram, every spell they were forced into using and every arrow fired from the walls weakened them further.

Tessaya nodded, satisfied. He flexed the muscles of his thigh and felt the pull where a Xeteskian arrow had punctured it. Never send your men where you were not prepared to go yourself. But by the time he was called upon to carry the ram again, he thought the gates would already be down. Soon it would be dawn. It was fitting that the new day should see the fall of Xetesk.

He took another look at the college's seven towers, soon to be toppled. Men were gathering high up on the tallest of them. Tessaya sniffed. The air tasted suddenly sour. Xetesk's evil was about to be unleashed once more.

Dystran stood with his dimensional team. Dawn was just below the horizon. He and they had spoken at some length and watched the Wesmen cycle their forces, never giving the defenders a break. Dystran's mages were close to exhaustion, his archers were almost spent and his commander was at the end of his tether, desperate to

get out and fight in the streets. Swordsmen were idle, Chandyr had said, while Wesmen went unchallenged. Dystran wanted them fresh. If this last gambit failed then every sword would be required to defend the tower complex. There was still scope for victory, but timely deployment was crucial. Dystran felt Chandyr was running on emotion, not logic.

He had argued long with Sharyr about the risk. He knew the alignment was incomplete. But the Wesmen had to be knocked back. The moment couldn't be delayed.

'Make me proud,' he said to the team as Sharyr readied them for the casting.

'Either that or I'll make you dead,' said Sharyr sharply.

Dystran respected his strength of belief. It made him a man with whom he could identify; and perhaps one to bring onto the Circle Seven where he could be kept more firmly in control.

'Just get started,' said Dystran. 'You'll be fine.'

He heard the thud of the Wesmen ram on the gates once more and felt the sharp spike in the mana spectrum indicating stress on the binding spells. All around the college, spells flew out,

carving lines of dark blue in the pre-dawn sky. Fires burned in a ring and everywhere he looked Dystran could see Wesmen.

'Sharyr, if this spell only stops one thing, make it stop that damn chanting. It is as distracting as it is tuneless.'

Sharyr almost smiled at that. He turned to those he could see of the fifteen that encircled the Tower and the casting began. Dystran sent a short prayer to whatever God might be listening. StormFront was a dangerous casting, barely developed and never live-tested. But it was the only one that would break the Wesmen in time. It required accurate construction, visualisation and placement. It needed the power of inter-dimensional space to drive it. And it needed huge mental strength to hold it while the storm coalesced. Everything went into the formation. After release, they could all stand and admire whileit washed out to every point of the compass.

Dystran smiled. The situation to test the casting was ideal; the desired formation circumference was just within the boundaries of the theoretically possible; and they were surrounded by enemies. StormFront was designed for exactly this scenario. Its successful casting would complete the suite of inter-dimensionally powered

spells and defeat the Wesmen at the same stroke. It would be a most satisfying outcome.

Sharyr was an efficient mage. No fuss. He managed his team closely. Dystran felt the pull of the mana and the order of a focused casting. He almost wished he had joined them. Almost.

The first indication of the casting was an impressive slit in the sky. Blue-edged, it appeared directly above his head and moved out to the periphery of the college where it stabilised. To begin with it was a slice of silk only a few feet long, alluring and delicate. It hardened then, taking on the shape of the spell: an arc, glimmering deep blue and ragged at its height. Abruptly, the arc lengthened. It ran away left and right, faster than the eye could follow, tracing the circumference of the college.

The circle completed. White flashed briefly in the blue mana light. The air hummed. Up on the walls, archers straightened and mages moved to standby, letting their casting constructs disperse. The Wesmen were withdrawing. Dystran didn't blame them.

The slit opened downwards slowly as the StormFront coalesced. To Dystran's left and right, mages gripped the balcony rail, steadying quivering legs while the energy washed through them and they fought to first contain it and next, feed it into the casting. He heard Sharyr's suddenly ragged breathing.

'Hold on,' he was urging his team. 'Hold on. Breathe easy.'

Inside the widening front, forks of bright blue light flashed. There was the roaring of a hurricane punctuated by the bass rumble of rolling thunder. On its lower edge, descending fast now and almost out of sight, the front boiled and bubbled in the Balaian air, hungrily grabbing at the elements to blend with the raw power of inter-dimensional space.

'Holding steady,' muttered Sharyr. 'Focus. Focus.'

The nature of the front changed slowly. It thickened. Its colour turned a deepening grey, muting the flashes within it. A wind whipped up around it. Even at this distance, it picked at Dystran's cloak. Down on the walls, soldiers hunched behind the battlements. Outside the college, Wesmen ran to the edge of the cobbles by the first rubbled buildings where their fires burned. They thought the spell was a shield but they were gravely mistaken. They had not retreated far enough.

Dystran sampled the construct. Felt its solidity and the effort of the mages keeping it secure while the forces poured in. It was the textbook shape. The casting would be a triumph. All he could do now was wait. The field strengthened further, discordant noise filling the air. The Wesmen had stopped singing.

Next to him, Sharyr stood with every muscle tensed. His forehead was damp with sweat that trickled over his closed eyes and down his cheeks. Dystran became aware of the murmuring

of the casting team. Their words were barely distinguishable as they spoke to each other across the construct and used command words that opened up new pathways in the shape, closed off others or bled away excess power.

A frown passed across Sharyr's face.

'Instability. Base level. Lock it down.'

To Dystran's right, a mage gasped with the effort, his teeth grinding. He swayed. Across the surface of the front, chaotic blue light surged and flashed.

'Spreading,' said Sharyr. 'Something's wrong. The alignment isn't firming, it's failing. How can that be . . . Prepare to release.'

'No,' said Dystran. 'Believe. Hold on for full term.'

The top edge of the front rippled violently. Dystran was buffeted by a sudden howl of wind. From the opposite side of the tower, he heard a cry of pain.

'One out, one out!' called Sharyr. 'Release on my mark.'

Dystran pursed his lips. Before him, the StormFront bucked and twisted. Its grey colouring was shot with dark lines. Bolts of pure energy seethed across its surface or grabbed at the ground. The intensity of noise grew sharply, battering at the ears. It was the sound of a thousand dragons breathing fire.

'Release!'

A moment's pause and the StormFront surged outwards, precisely as designed. An expanding wall of Balaian elemental destruction, focused and powered by the energy of inter- dimensional space. It would dissipate in no more than seventy to a hundred yards, minimising the risk to ordinary Xeteskians. But before it became little more than a puff of air, it would obliterate everything in its path.

Scant feet from the walls, the StormFront guttered and halted.

Dystran staggered under the weight of the backwash through the mana spectrum.

'What' he began.

It guttered again, rippled across its surface then the whole front delivered a blistering white light that scoured the night from the city in an instant. Through the patterns across his tortured eyes, Dystran saw the StormFront blink and suck back towards its starting point, the constant light casting harsh day over Xetesk. At dreadful speed, the circle wound back. The entire construct reversed until just a twinkle of blue mana light remained in the air just above and outside the college gates.

Blackness flooded the void left by the light. Dystran blinked hard, trying to shift the shapes that flowed across his vision. In monochrome, he could just pick out the sparkle of light over the gates, the fires indicating the Wesmen and, too bright to be anything other than a problem, the glimmer from the previous night's CobaltFury that had never dissipated.

Hypnotised, he watched a strand of blue emanate from the glimmer above the city walls and trace across the sky towards the college. It was pencil-thin and quite steady but Dystran sensed such menace inside it that it made him shudder.

There was no sound he could hear above his own breathing and the crackle of fires and hiss of lanterns and torches. Every waking eye would be transfixed by the line being drawn above the city. Every voice was mute.

'Sharyr?' hissed Dystran. 'Answers. Quickly.'

T have none,' said Sharyr, his voice weary.

Dystran would have looked at him but he was reluctant to leave the spectacle. The points of light were almost joined now and the sense of foreboding growing.

'It's going to be a gateway,' said Dystran. 'But to where?'

'You can't be sure,' said Sharyr. 'It's probably just something caused by the meeting of our elements and inter-dimensional space.' Sharyr's tone suggested he didn't believe what he was saying.

The line of light reached the walls of the college. Alien sound abruptly split the nervous quiet. From the windows of towers, open doors and shadowed recesses, familiars flew. Two dozen and more, all that remained in the college. Gone was the mischievous laughter

and the chittering contempt to be replaced by hollow keening and long, high-pitched and querulous wails.

Shivering, Dystran watched their flight pattern. It was tightly formed, one leading all the others in a helical pattern around the beam of light. They dispersed back into the sky after a few turns, rising in graceful arcs before plunging back towards the college, voices changed, sounding warning and alarm.

One by one, they disappeared back where they had come but the last diverted and flew to the balcony where Dystran stood. It hovered in front of him. Dystran considered he had never seen a familiar display fear before.

'Prepare,' it hissed. 'Save the masters. They are come.' And it dropped from sight.

Dystran's eyes snapped back to the beam.

'Oh dear Gods, what have we done?' he breathed.

Already, the first signs of panic were evident in the grounds of the college. People were running and shouting to no discernible purpose. Dystran fancied he could hear doors slam and lock. As if that would make any difference. Around him, the alignment team were pressing towards the balcony doors, eager for an escape.

T tried to warn you,' said Sharyr. 'The alignment was never favourable enough for the power we had to use. A breach was surely inevitable.'

'They must have been waiting,' whispered Dystran.

'Ever since we first cast BlueStorm, I expect,' said Sharyr. 'Congratulations, my Lord Dystran. You have killed us all.'

Fierce cold washed out from the beam. Teeth ached in chilled gums, hair frosted and eyes dried out and stung. Through the frozen mist filling the air, Dystran could see the beam move. Edges appeared along its length and blue light spilled out. Not the deep blue of Xetesk but the livid colour of the demon dimension.

And out they spilled in their tens, hundreds and thousands. Multiple shapes and innumerable sizes and colours. Dystran saw demons the size of small birds flit off on buzzing wings. He saw others that would tower over houses, floating. He saw tails and tentacles. He saw necks like those of dragons, the heads of disfigured men, animals and other forms totally alien. Snakelike demons

shimmered in the sky, bulbous-skulled demons roared across the firmament.

Still they poured out on a wave of blue demon-light. And when they had finished their cavorting, they grouped together. Four main groups and dozens of smaller ones fizzing and diving, setting off to every point of the compass, or so it seemed.

Dystran couldn't move. His mouth was dry and his body shook.

'Do something!' yelled Sharyr.

'Nothing,' mumbled Dystran, gesturing uselessly. 'There's nothing to do.'

'Organise, damn you!' Sharyr grabbed his lapels and shook some sense back into his mind. 'We have to work together or we'll all die, do you understand?'

'Yes,' said Dystran. 'Yes. ColdRooms. Make ColdRooms. And work. Research. We must fight. Muster in the mana bowl.'

Thousands of demons descended on Xetesk. Their approach was soundless and awesome, on a wave of freezing air. Others were surely on their way to Dordover, Lystern and Julatsa. They were the centres of mana energy and life force. The jewels the demons had craved for so long.

'Go,' said Dystran. 'Let me face them. They will want to talk.'

'Talk?'

'Yes, Sharyr. Demons always want to talk.'

At the head of the advance, three detached themselves and floated towards the tower. Sharyr took the remnants of his team and fled. Dystran, his heart thrashing in his chest, his consciousness threatening to desert him, faced the new enemy. The three were monstrous. Better than thirty feet tall, they had roughly human torsos but beneath their trunks tentacles writhed. Colours flashed across their sexless bodies, rainbows chasing each other to nowhere.

'You are not welcome here,' managed Dystran. 'Respect the ancient laws and treaties. Return to your dimension and seal the rift you have made.'

'The time of humans has passed,' said one, chest rippling and writhing. The voice was deep and carried far and wide. 'We rule here now.'

Chapter 7

Hirad awoke with the sense of unease he had learned to trust. He lay where he was for a time, breathing in the rich scent of hay around him in the barn loft, seeing the rays of the dawn sun through the gaps in the planked walls and hearing the sounds of horses. Quite a number of horses.

He hurried to his feet and looked around for The Unknown. The big warrior was already standing at a small window, Thraun and Darrick by his side, looking down onto the village's single street.

'Trouble?' asked Hirad.

'See for yourself,' said The Unknown. 'Dordover has arrived.'

Through the window, Hirad could see at least twenty horsemen in college livery. Next to them was the one impostor that had escaped the previous evening along with several villagers. They were grouped at the bottom of the path that led up to Ferran's farm and there was no doubt at all where their attention lay. While he watched, Hirad saw small bags being tossed to the impostor and each of the villagers, who were then waved away.

'They're paying our ransom,' he said.

'Yeah,' said The Unknown. 'A little premature, don't you think?'

Hirad heard the sound of a sword belt being buckled on.

'Damn right,' said Hirad. 'Ideas?'

The Unknown looked out of the window once more. Hirad broke away to pull on his boots, and belt on his own sword. 'Ferran isn't with them, I see. We can presume he's innocent. That means that while they know we're in his buildings they won't know who's where necessarily. But we aren't going to get to the farmhouse without being seen and I think a little surprise is what we need.'

'I wonder if Denser and Erienne know what's happening.'

'I don't doubt it,' said Darrick. 'What we have to worry about is

that we're unshielded. And I disagree with you, Unknown. Surprise is not what we need. After all, we've got a little help coming.'

He pointed to the left towards the southern edge of the village. Figures were racing in from the forest just beyond the last houses, disappearing into shadow to reappear far closer than they had any right to. And very much adjacent, a panther roared. The predatory sound scared the horses. A couple reared, the rest shifted, backing away. Riders began to dismount.

'Well, even if our loving couple were asleep, they aren't now,' said Hirad. 'Let's go, Raven, there's work to do.'

Thraun hung back. T will run with the panther one last time on Balaia,' he said.

'You sure?'

The blond warrior nodded, his yellow-tinged eyes bright. Hirad didn't wait for him but led the way down the ladder to the empty horse stalls. At the barn's double doors, The Unknown halted them briefly.

'Remember, if they want to arrest us, we can talk. Buy time. Just like last night.'

T doubt they'll be as incompetent as last night,' said Darrick.

'Take my lead,' said The Unknown.

He pulled open the doors and strode out into the cool air of early morning. Darrick and Hirad were at either shoulder. Thraun was still inside. Not two paces into the sunlight and FlameOrbs arced towards them.

'Run!'

The Raven trio scrambled back inside, the Orbs crashing into the barn and the ground where they had been standing. Loose hay ignited, timbers flared and the ageing structure groaned and protested the impact. Fire took swift hold of the village side of the barn. It raced up the lintel where tongues licked down, daring them to attempt escape. It ate across the floor, finding ample fuel. Darrick, joined by the others, kicked a makeshift firebreak while behind them Thraun prowled, growling nervously.

'How strong are the walls d'you reckon?' asked Hirad. 'You know, just in case.'

'Not strong enough,' said The Unknown.

Smoke fled across the underside of the roof, choking the timbers

and carrying sparks to the hayloft. Already, flames threatened the thatch high above them.

'We don't have a lot of time,' said Darrick.

'Patience,' said The Unknown, coughing.

'Raven!' came a voice. 'Surrender immediately or we'll burn you where you hide. You have' He made a choking sound. Hirad fancied he heard a dry thud.

'Auum,' said Hirad. The panther roared into the teeth of another spell detonation. Men shouted. There were running feet.

'Hirad, shoulder at the edge of the flame, we'll break through there. Roll and split outside. Don't give them a target.' The Unknown sheathed his sword. 'Raven with me!'

Hirad and The Unknown sprinted for the fire's edge which was advancing along the wall at frightening speed, its heat drawing sweat from their brows. The warriors launched themselves on the last pace, shoulders connecting with scorching timbers. The impact of their combined weight on weakened wood was predictable and they punched through to fresh air in a shower of sparks and splinters.

Both men rolled on the packed earth, drawing swords as they regained their feet and running at angles towards the enemy. Thraun howled and charged. Darrick moved up in their wake. From the left, the TaiGethen and Rebraal advanced carefully behind accurate bowfire that skipped off a HardShield but kept its caster concentrating hard. The ClawBound were sprinting in a wide arc to reach the back of the Dordovans, their horses beginning to panic and split.

Already, one of their number lay with a shaft through his throat. Others circled and ran to defensive positions. Mages, one still on horseback, were either casting or held shields in place. The Raven's betrayers were backing off north. Hirad noted them and was just wondering if Denser and Erienne were with The Raven when the Xeteskian announced that he was.

Two focused columns of HellFire speared down from the clear sky. Rich blue and targeted at two standing mages, they struck with unstoppable power. A shield flared briefly orange and collapsed. Beneath it the two victims vaporised, not even having the time to scream.

'Let's take them, Raven!' yelled Hirad, changing the angle of his

run to strike the centre of the demoralised and confused Dordovan force.

Thraun was past him on the next heartbeat, leaping to take the remaining mage from his horse. Blood fountained into the air and his horse bolted.

'They're open!' shouted The Unknown. 'Keep firing!'

Arrows flew. Two men were struck. From behind, the Claw-Bound elf strode in and buried his fingers deep into the face of a terrified conscript. His panther was by his side.

Half the remaining Dordovans turned to run and found themselves facing The Raven. Hirad was in no mood for games. The man in front of him recognised him and had all but resigned himself to death before Hirad struck. He raised a guard. Hirad stepped inside it, blocked away the sword arm with his left and buried his blade deep into the Dordovan's gut, driving up under the rib cage. Blood exploded from his mouth, spattering Hirad's face. The barbarian dragged the blade clear, turned to find his next opponent and crashed a fist into his face above his sword guard. The soldier staggered back. Hirad paced after him, punched him again, square on the chin. The soldier's sword dropped from nerveless fingers. Hirad growled and sliced out his throat.

Darrick had already downed two men who mistakenly thought him the easier target, while beside them one hapless soldier had met the full force of The Unknown's sword and had been all but divided in two at the midriff. The sword had caught in his splintered ribs. The Unknown struggled to drag it clear, another soldier closing on him, looking to carve himself a piece of history.

'Your right, Unknown,' called Hirad, blocking away a quick attack from one of a duo he faced.

The Unknown swung round, straight-punched the soldier on the nose with his right fist, paced in and butted him hard. The man stumbled backwards and The Unknown finished him, driving his blade deep into his gut.

Hirad pushed away his closest attacker and backed off a pace, smiling.

'Shame for you,' he said. 'Because you'll never know what hit you.'

In front of him, the soldiers hesitated. And Auum's Tai hit them

with a speed that made Hirad gasp. Duele kicked head-high, snapping the neck of one man, Auum and Evunn scything into the legs and chest of the other. Hirad looked about him. It was over. The one remaining impostor leaped onto the back of a horse and kicked it into frenzied action. His limbs flailed as he urged it desperately towards a gallop.

'Not this time,' said Hirad. 'Thraun!'

The wolf looked up from the throat of a victim, blood covering his muzzle.

'The rider!' Hirad pointed. 'Quickly. Betrayer!'

Thraun barked once and set off, die panther quickly at his side. The impostor looked over his shoulder and screamed at his terrified mount for more speed. But instead of that, all he got was a stutter and a half-turn on the gallop. Thraun closed the distance quickly, nipping at die animal's heels. It kicked out and bucked and in the same instant the panther leaped high and bore the impostor from his saddle. Fangs ripped and tore.

Hirad looked away. Straight into the eyes of one of the village betrayers. '

'You,' he breathed and began to advance.

All five of them were in a group twenty yards from the fighting, all set to run.

'Reckon you can outrun the wolf or the panther, boy?' snarled Hirad at one, a youth of no more than sixteen, freckled and ginger-haired. Urine coursed down his legs. 'Don't you move a fucking muscle.'

The villagers froze, caught between the advancing barbarian and the knowledge of the two wild animals behind them.

'Hirad,' warned The Unknown. 'Don't you do it.'

'Do what?' asked Hirad, not breaking stride.

'You know what I'm talking about.'

'Damn you, Unknown, you know me better than that.' He dropped his sword to the ground, unbuckled his sword belt and dropped that too, complete with its sheathed daggers. He stopped and turned, arms outstretched. 'All right now?'

'Still hardly a fair contest,' said The Unknown.

'There isn't going to be a contest.'

Hirad marched up to the five men. They all looked so small

though at least two were bigger than he was. Strong farmers and farmers' sons. But where it mattered, they had no strength at all.

T don't know,' said Hirad. 'I really don't.'

He stood close to them, looking from one to another in turn, seeing scared eyes beneath shamed brows. He could barely control the fury coursing through his body. The Unknown had been right to make sure he was disarmed.

T would cut you all down and piss on your rotting corpses but it would be a waste of my edge and my water.'

He saw them cower and it gave him no pleasure. He struggled to understand what they had been prepared to do. These were ordinary Balaians. His people. The people he had been fighting for ever since the discovery of Dawn thief more than six years ago.

Hirad pointed at one, a broad-shouldered man with a thick thatch of unruly brown hair and a long nose.

'I drank with you last night. We bought each other ale. Exchanged names. And you.' He jabbed the freckled youth's chest, forcing him to back up a pace. 'You pestered me all night for stories.'

He shook his head sadly.

'And I told you everything you wanted to hear and every bit of it was true. And did you count the number of times The Raven stood against the enemy and saved your lives? We'd never met you and still we wanted you to live.

'That's honour. That's wanting what's best for the people of your country. We spent six years fighting battles we didn't start to give you the chance to grow your crops and tend your cattle.

'Yet you meet us for one night and decide to help another man betray us.'

His voice, carrying strongly, rose to a shout as his control finally broke.

'My friends died for you!' he stormed. 'Saving you so you could turn round and sell us for a few pieces of fucking coin.'

Hirad bit back bitter tears.

'If you ever had an elven friend and he's alive today, that's down to The Raven. You are not a pile of dragon-fired ash because of The Raven. Because the Wytch Lords don't own your souls, you should be thanking The Raven. And my friends died in that time. Ilkar the

last of them. A sacrifice to stop those who would dictate how you thought about magic.

'You are free because of us. Yet you would sell us. For how much, eh? What's in those purses of yours? What are The Raven worth?'

They fidgeted, looked to one another. Like last night, the village had assembled to see the spectacle. Hirad held out his hand.

'Show me. Now.'

The youth fished in his pocket and dropped a small purse in Hirad's palm. The barbarian eyed him meaningfully and poured the contents into his other hand. A few gold coins. Little real value in today's market where produce was king. He emptied them onto the ground.

'I could multiply that by five and still it would come to bugger all, wouldn't it? That's the price you put on everything The Raven have done for you is it? The price you put on Ilkar's death?'

The youth didn't see the left hook that laid him flat. Hirad rounded on the four still standing.

'Purses. Now. On the ground.'

They hesitated.

'You were paid a reward. But unless you are planning on arresting me yourselves, I suggest you hand it over. You have not completed your contract.'

A second hesitation was ended by a significant growl from Thraun who had padded up silently behind them. With great reluctance, hands reached into pockets. Four purses clinked to the ground. Hirad kicked them away and turned at last to face the villagers. To the left, Ferran's barn, wrapped in flame, began to collapse. Smoke boiled into the air.

'We didn't ever demand much. Payment for our services. Sometimes not even that. Mostly we just wanted a country where we could all live in peace.

'What you do with these behind me is up to you but personally I wouldn't be happy if they were part of my village. They are barely part of the human race. The money we'll take, barring what Ferran will need to rebuild his barn.'

He turned to walk back to The Raven but a final thought struck him.

'You know the thing that really makes me sick to my stomach? It's

the fact that next time Balaia is threatened, the same people who betray us today will call for us to help them. Well, we won't be hearing you. Perhaps you'll think on why that is before the enemy kills your children in front of you. Find yourselves some new heroes. Because we're leaving and we won't be coming back. 'The Raven will not ride again.'

Dawn's light had brought little real respite in Lystern. The demons had flooded through the city and into the college two hours before. Heryst had lost a third of his mage strength then and there, their life energy and souls feeding their attackers; their deaths mere prelude to lingering purgatory if the myths were true.

Heryst and the council had reacted smartly and enough mages were holed up in the great council chamber to keep a ColdRoom casting going almost indefinitely. The spell, which banished mana from within it, was their only effective defence against the mana-based demons which quickly suffocated without it. Any that tried to attack within the ColdRoom were easily dispatched because swords were also affected by the spell and carried no mana in their steel.

Heryst, Lystern's Lord Elder Mage, prayed for the souls of any not within similar sanctuary. He could not Commune from within the ColdRoom. Mana would not coalesce. Indeed the only strands of mana were those that led from the five casting mages that fed the spell construct.

Latterly, the demons had seemed content to walk or float just outside the transparent spell. It was enough to keep the one hundred and sixty-three mages, soldiers and assorted college staff on edge. Heryst knew he couldn't let the situation stagnate. He could feel the anxiety in the chamber and sense all of them begin to add up the practical problems they faced.

He squeezed the arm of his most trusted aide and friend. A man who he was so pleased to have with him now.

'Kayvel, it's time to get organised. Check on the casting team will you?'

Kayvel smiled through his own fear and climbed onto the council table. The casting team, surrounded by swordsmen, were in its centre, as far from accident as was possible. Heryst watched Kayvel

walk rather awkwardly across the intricately designed wood and kneel by the team to exchange soft words.

'People,' said Heryst, clapping his hands and stilling the quiet hum of conversation. 'Let's gather ourselves. Over here, please. We've got work to do.'

He could see it so clearly in all their faces. From the most senior mage to the youngest serving girl or kitchen lad. Incomprehension edged by terror. Loss. The war had been hard enough though it had never touched them. But this. Most of these people had gone from knowing about demons only from text and story, to the staggering certainty that nothing would be the

same again. And that everything they had known and taken for granted was gone. Heryst had worse news for them.

He waited while they assembled. Every eye was on him, needing him to help them find a way back. If they could only but sample the desperation he felt. Too much knowledge could sometimes be considered dangerous. But he felt that he had to tell them what they were up against. But first, a little balm.

'We are safe here,' he said. T know you don't all understand what we have created but, as you have seen, it keeps the demons at bay and those who try to breach it are easy targets. Remember that because it is as good as our position gets.'

A murmur went round the crowd in front of him.

'There are things you have to know. And because I need you all if we are to survive, I will not hide anything from you. Outside this spell, we cannot fight them for any length of time. Though they are vulnerable to spells, they will barely be harmed by swords because of the mana in the air and over everything.'

A hand went up. It was a young girl that Heryst recognised. She was attached to the staff of the tower kitchens. In her early twenties, dark-haired and slim-built.

'Please my Lord, I don't understand. What are these things?'

Heryst smiled. 'I'm sorry, yes, let's start at the beginning. I'll be brief though so anything you don't quite get, ask a mage later. Mages, you will answer all these questions. This is no time to feel you are somehow above helping ordinary Lysternans.

'These demons are from a dimension other than our own. We have had contact with them for many hundreds of years. Enough to

know that they covet our land because of its richness and the vitality of life here. Demons need mana in the atmosphere in order to breathe and maintain their natural armour and that is why we are cocooned in the ColdRoom spell. But they live on the life force of other creatures. You'd call that their souls, I guess, and it is as good a word as any. They can drain your soul in an instant or feed off it over the course of years. They can choose to keep you alive while they drain you. It would be a drawn-out death. And we understand that the souls of those they take can be kept in existence in their own dimension, stimulated by pain to pulse out life for years.'

He paused and looked around the room. Tears were running down the cheeks of men and women alike. He saw others shivering. And yet more looking to the edges of the casting, into the corridors beyond the council chamber where demons hovered. A hand was raised. Heryst nodded for the soldier to speak.

'Can we beat them back?'

Heryst shrugged. T don't know. I have to say I have my doubts. We can only guess at the numbers they have in the city and beyond. Fighting them one to one is probably not worth it. What we have to do ultimately is find out where they are coming from and literally close the door.'

'How are we going to do that stuck in here?' shouted someone.

Heryst held up his hands. 'Calm, please. That is why we are talking now. Here is what I want us to consider. First, the practical. We have no food, water or latrine facilities and we have to work out ways to get them.'

'My Lord Heryst,' said Kayvel. T can partially solve the latter.'

Kayvel's voice was like a cool breeze over hot skin. Heryst smiled. 'Then let us hear you. I have managed only to depress people so far.'

A fractional easing of the tension was evidenced by the odd chuckle.

'The spell's coverage is a little wider than we thought. It does cover the latrines beyond the north doors. Only just, but it does nonetheless.'

'Thank you,' said Heryst. 'But it isn't enough for a long-term siege in here. They will fill and we have no way of clearing them. But for now, it is a piece of genuinely good news. As soon as I've finished speaking, Kayvel, who I am putting in charge of soldiers

and non-mages, will organise a rota. No one is to visit the latrines without an armed guard. Remember, the demons will watch our every move and try to counter it.

'Right, food and water. We all know where our stores and wells are. The question is, how do we reach them without being taken by the demons? Mages, I need you to work out if it is possible to effect a moving ColdRoom. Kitchen and cleaning staff, identify every place where there is a bucket, a basin, a barrel...anything we can use to carry food, water, clothes, bedding up here. Assume we are going to be here for some time while we decide how to strike back. When Kayvel is ready, he will hear what you know.

'Any questions?'

'My Lord?'

'Yes, Oded, speak up,' said Heryst to the young council mage.

'Thank you, my Lord,' he said. 'Do you think we can expect any help from the outside?'

Heryst noted the concentrated gaze of all present on him. It was a hope to which all had been clinging.

'No, I don't think we can,' he said quietly. 'I'm sorry. I'll come back to why in a moment but before I forget, Oded, I want you to take a team of three and think hard about how we can communicate. I know there is no Communion from within the ColdRoom but consider this. There are strands of mana feeding the ColdRoom construct. Is there any way you can piggyback those to reach the mana spectrum? And if so, what can you do when you get there?

'Now, back to your question. We don't yet know where the demons are getting into the Balaian dimension but we were attacked from the north. I suspect Xetesk was the focus. But we have to assume that the demons have attacked all colleges, and other centres of population will no doubt follow in due course. If we're lucky, mages in all the colleges have gathered together like we have. Elsewhere on Balaia, I fear for our people, I really do.

'I expect that at some stage the demons will make their plans known. Whoever is leading them in Lystern will come here and want to talk to me. That is when we will perhaps know the extent of what we face. But we have to face facts.

'The demons control Balaia.'

*

With a growing sense of incomprehension, Tessaya and the Wesmen had watched the events taking place in the air above Xetesk. They had watched the line being drawn in the sky and had seen the extraordinary creatures spill out of it like entrails from a slit gut. With a collective furrowed brow they witnessed them group up and fly off to all parts of Balaia. None, he noticed, directly towards the Blackthorne Mountains. Tessaya had gathered his men as it became obvious that the threat from Xetesk's defence had gone in the face of whatever it was that attacked them. He didn't want any of his people anywhere hear it.

Initially, the Wesmen had cheered and sung as the creatures in every possible hue, and on a tide of purest blue light and cold, attacked within the walls. Spells had flashed and flared into the predawn sky. But so quickly, it had quietened. The songs had died in their throats and all they could hear were the occasional shouts of men, the swish of a thousand bodies swooping in the air, and the shuddering sound of Xeteskians screaming and wailing. It was a sound that would live with him for ever. He had heard frightened men before but this was something so much worse. Like the opening of a gulf into unending despair.

He was at a loss. To all intents and purposes, Xetesk's new enemy had done their work for them. That should have made them an ally. But Tessaya was not about to offer his hand to any of those that he saw and that still emerged from the slit in the sky, scattering through the city and the lands beyond.

Not one of them had shown the slightest bit of interest in the Wesmen gathered outside Xetesk's college gates. And for that he was glad. Because something was badly astray with what he was seeing. This wasn't the work of mages. The cold in the air was unnatural and it smelled bad. And there was an evil in the way the creatures moved and attacked, in the way they sounded and in the cries of the Xeteskians as they died, if die they did.

Part of him wanted to remove his men from the area, return to the Heartlands. But in all truth he could not. He refused to turn and run from the new invaders; and indeed felt that would be futile, so fast did they travel. Far more than that though, he was in sight of realising the dream of the Wesmen. To throw down the Towers of

Xetesk. Their defiance had been comprehensively broken but what had replaced it was clearly a power of considerable strength.

For the first time in many years, he did not know what he should do. So he waited. Waited while the noise died to a whisper within the walls and the screams that had echoed through the city had ceased. And while the chill in the air deepened, the glow of blue light from the slit in the sky spread and the sense of evil pervaded the walls behind him and the mind of every warrior standing with him.

They spoke in low tones, sang tribal songs and stared at him and the college. He knew they were scared but not one would run, not even in the face of an enemy they had no idea how to fight.

'My Lord, look!' shouted a warrior.

A renewed hush fell over the two thousand. From behind the college walls arose six of the creatures. One, huge, half as tall as the walls and truly awesome, was at their head. It had the body and head of a man but was tentacled from the waist down. The tentacles wavered like an anemone, propelling the creature through the air. Those grouped around it all had wings, tails and flat features in cold dead faces. All of them were hairless and had adopted blue colouring though flashes of reds and greens rippled across their flesh.

Tessaya drew his blade and gripped it hard.

'Don't flinch,' he shouted. 'We are the Wesmen. We fear nothing.'

He heard his words shouted back at him and he nodded, a fierce smile cracking his features. He watched the creatures which approached fast, on a wave of cold. The giant one settled onto its tentacles in front of him. It was completely odourless.

'We are the new masters here,' said the creature. 'You will submit to our rule. You will not bear arms and you will offer all your subjects for sacrifice. We will take as we please. It is the way.'

'No one rules the Wesmen. We will fight you and we will prevail.'

Tessaya struck out with his blade. He saw die sword cut deep, he felt the resistance of die creature's flesh, but when he ripped the blade clear the wound healed while he watched. Pain flickered momentarily across its face.

'You cannot fight us,' said the creature. 'You will be the first. Your people will learn to respect us. There is no other way.'

The creature reached out and touched Tessaya above the heart,

gripping. A frown creased its face. It pushed harder. Tessaya stumbled a pace and was pushed back upright by the men behind him.

'What is this?' hissed the creature. 'Your soul is mine. All your souls are mine.'

Tessaya laughed loud and in its face.

'Demons.' He spat on the ground, recollecting the Easterner word from the stories and rumours. 'Do you really know so little? You cannot touch the Wesmen. The Spirits protect our souls.'

'Then we will break the Spirits before we break you.'

'It is a battle you cannot win.'

The demon stared at him for a moment, turned and floated away back to the college. An uneasy calm fell over the Wesmen. Tessaya looked back to the towers of Xetesk.

They were clever, these Xeteskians. The demons were susceptible to magic but stamina for offence was finite and the enemy had overwhelming strength. But they had worked out quickly what it was the demons feared and had set it in front of them as a barrier. And for all their force of numbers, the demons respected it and had backed off.

Whatever the casting was, demons died within it and so remained outside of it. There had been very few times in his life when Tessaya had wished he understood magic but this was one such. He envied the potential it gave them and he was filled with a curious impotence. The fact was that these Easterners could kill the demons, or damage them at the very least, while he with all his passion and strength could not.

The sun was dipping behind the towers before he had seen enough. There came a moment when the barrier had sapped the wills of the demons for the time being and they had turned their minds to the recently enslaved populace. Tessaya had no desire to join them.

'The mages will not die easily or quickly,' he said to his nearest lieutenant. 'Our opportunity for today has passed.'

'And perhaps for ever,' said the warrior.

'There will be other days and the demons fear us,' replied Tessaya. 'But for today, we are finished. Call the tribes. We will withdraw. The city belongs to the demons.'

'Camp at Understone?'

Tessaya nodded. 'But with a forward camp within sight of the

walls. We must not lose touch. Something extraordinary is happen ing. Sound the fall-back.'

Dystran watched the Wesmen go and felt deserted. The ColdRooms deterred the demons for now but he needed his every ally and his erstwhile enemy had surely become one.

They had something, they must have. Because the demons didn't, or more likely couldn't, take their souls. Dystran was damned if he knew what it was. But their departure marked the passing of the last vestige of what could laughingly be described as normality on Balaia.

He wondered what they would do. How far they would go. However far, it would not be enough. Strange. He almost felt sorry for Tessaya. Know it or not, the Wesmen lord's fate and that of all his tribes depended on whether magic survived. Another day, he would have laughed at the paradox. Today, though, he had lost his city and most of his college. His mages and soldiers had died and those that remained were few and scared.

Never mind Tessaya, he had to get his devastated people through just one more day. And then the next.

'Gods, Ranyl, how I need you now.'

But Ranyl, like so many, could not hear him.

Chapter 8

'Ilkar!'

Hirad sat bolt upright in his bed, die sweat pouring from him. He was soaked in it. Just like in the early days of his life on Calaius. But this was nothing to do with acclimatisation. His heart was pounding so hard his throat hurt and he was quivering all over. He rubbed his hands over his face and into his hair. He closed his eyes briefly but the images replayed and he couldn't control his breathing.

With a shiver playing down his back, he swung his legs from the bed and stood on the matting. He heard voices elsewhere in the house and craved their company. In two years he had learned enough elvish to get by. In fact it was a language he enjoyed and these days when Rebraal visited the village, the two of them spoke more in the elf s tongue than Hirad's.

He pulled on a shirt and loose trousers and walked out of what had once been Ilkar's room in his parents' house, heading for the veranda and what he hoped would be friendly faces. Outside in the cool but still humid air deep in the Calaian rainforest, Rebraal and Kild'aar, a distant aunt by some means Hirad couldn't quite understand, were sitting and talking. Drinks steamed gently on a table between them. A fire burned in the pit in front of the house, smoke spiralling into sky that was clouding for more rain.

It was the middle of the night. Out in the rainforest, the noise of life and death went on as it always did. The air smelled of rain and fresh vegetation. Hirad sat on one of the three other swept-back chairs on the veranda, feeling the weave shift to accommodate his broad shoulders.

'I'll get you some tea,' said Kild'aar, levering herself out of her chair and walking slightly stiffly down the steps to the fire pit.

'Your shouting eventually woke you up too, did it?' said Rebraal, a smile touching his lips.

'I'm sorry,' said Hirad.

Rebraal shook his head. 'Tell me. If you want to.'

'I've felt the same thing a few nights but not with this - uh - sorry Rebraal, I don't have the words.' He switched into Balaian. 'This intensity. It's like someone's been battering on the door and now finally they've broken it down.'

Tlkar?' asked Rebraal.

Hirad shrugged. 'Well, yes. Daft I know. I still miss him, you know.'

'What have you seen?'

'Oh, that's hard to say.' Hirad pushed his hand through his hair, feeling the lank braids and the moisture left on his hands. 'I know it's him but I can't quite make him out. His essence, I can feel that so clearly. Everything that made him. And I fill in the smile and those damned ears myself. But he's in trouble. That's why the dream is so bad. I got the feeling he was running but I don't know where. That something was close that scared him. And though I reached out, I couldn't help him. He was always just beyond my grasp and my vision.

'Huh, speaking it makes it sound lame. Not scary at all.'

Kild'aar came back up the steps and handed him a mug of the herb tea that Ilkar had been so fond of. Deprived of coffee for more than a year now since his supply had run out, Hirad had developed a taste for the sweet aromatic teas of the elves. He'd had no choice really. The trade to Balaia had gone. No ships had come from the northern continent for three seasons now. Part of him worried about what that might mean. Most of him was glad they didn't trouble to make the journey. There was only one man on Balaia that Hirad missed and Blackthorne had never relied on trade with the elves so he would be unaffected. And Jevin, the last time he'd seen the elven skipper, had said he preferred not to sail north any more. He didn't say why.

'Thank you,' he said, once again speaking elvish. 'I'm sorry I woke you.'

Kild'aar waved away his apology and sat down, her eyes on Rebraal. 'You haven't told him yet?'

'We hadn't got round to it,' said Rebraal.

'Hadn't got round to what?' asked Hirad.

'You didn't wake us,' said Rebraal. 'Or at least, not me.'

'So you were having a late night, so what?'

'So I've had the selfsame dream,' said Rebraal.

'I beg your pardon?' Hirad felt cold despite the humidity of the night and clutched his mug tight between his hands.

'I have felt him too. He was your good friend. He was my brother.'

'Yeah, I know, Rebraal, and we've laughed and cried about him a good few times these last couple of years but, you know . . . He's dead, and there's nothing we can do about that.'

'No, we can't. But that doesn't mean we can't help him.'

Hirad felt a growing unease. Rebraal and Kild'aar were both staring at him too earnestly. He frowned.

'You've lost me completely.' He knew his tone was a little sharp but he was tired and this was just riddles. 'That's the trouble with dead people. It's too late to help them ever again.'

'Hirad,' said Kild'aar softly and leaned forward to cover his hands with hers where they were locked around his mug. 'I know it hasn't always been easy for you here and that we, at least in the beginning, did not make it easy for you at all. But we have always respected why you wanted to come here. We know of your love for Ilkar and your desire to learn the ways that made him what he was.

'And you and your Raven will always be friends of the elves because of your actions in stopping the Elfsorrow. Rebraal calls you a brother and Auum, well, Auum let you run with the TaiGethen for a season, didn't he? And that is respect no human has ever had before.'

'He still said I was slow and deaf and blind, though,' said Hirad, smiling in spite of himself and the increasing feeling he was going to hear something he didn't want to.

'You will always be human,' said Rebraal. 'Some things not even Auum can teach you.'

'Tell me about it,' grumbled Hirad. 'Never give me a jaqrui again. I think I scarred Duele for life.'

'The point is this,' said Kild'aar, stilling Rebraal's next retort with a sharp glance. 'Though we trust you, there are those facts about us that you as a human should never know. Secrets that could be used

against us. We have already seen what humans do with such knowledge.'

'Not me, Kild'aar. Never me.'

'I know, Hirad,' said Kild'aar, releasing his hands so he could drink. 'Even so, we are only telling you this because you have had the dream and that makes you closer to us than we could ever have thought possible. It makes you family.'

'Telling me what?' Hirad took a long sip of the tea.

'The dead of an elven family are never truly lost,' said Rebraal. 'We can always hear them if they need us.'

Hirad felt a thrill through his heart. 'And can you talk to them?'

Kild'aar's smile extinguished his hope. 'It isn't communication as you would understand it because the dead do not exist in any way you can conceive. But messages can still be passed. It is one of the purposes of the temple at Aryndeneth.'

'The Al-Arynaar have been the keepers of this secret too,' said Rebraal. 'No other order can hear the dead. We learn it over years, decades. And even then it is difficult and uncertain.'

'What do they ask you? Why would they need you?'

'That is a difficult question to answer,' said Kild'aar. 'Elves make life bonds of incredible depth and often the transition to death is difficult. The dead seem to have moments of clarity amongst so much else we cannot guess at. They seek support if they feel lost. News of loved ones. They impart knowledge they had no time to speak when they were alive. You must understand that any communication that comes through is broken and sometimes all but incoherent. The dead no longer have the rules that guide us.'

'All right,' said Hirad carefully, trying to take it all in. 'But that doesn't explain one thing. How come I heard him tonight, if indeed I did?'

'Oh you heard him, all right,' said Rebraal. 'But you shouldn't have been able to and that is what is worrying us. I shouldn't have been able to do any more than sense him outside of Aryndeneth.'

'So didn't you ask him what's going on?'

T couldn't. It was like he was shouting for anyone to hear him, to help him. Anyone with a connection as strong as family. Hirad, other Al-Arynaar have had this same dream in the past days . . . this same contact I should say. But no one can communicate at the

temple. Something is wrong in the world of the dead. Something is threatening them.'

Hirad made to speak and then stopped, at a loss. He sat back in his chair. 'What can threaten someone who is already dead?'

'We don't know,' said Kild'aar, sharing a guilty glance with Rebraal. 'Or at least, we aren't sure.'

'Well we'd better find out and fast,' said Hirad. 'We've got to help him.'

Hirad was half out of his chair before Rebraal's hand on his shoulder pushed him back down.

'That's why we're talking to you now. It might have been better in the light of day but since you are awake, now is the right time.' Rebraal levered himself out of his chair, took all three mugs and jumped lightiy down to the fire pit around which insects buzzed and died. 'There are other elements to this which are too convenient to be coincidence.'

'Like what?'

'The lack of trade from Balaia. I don't think you've thought why it's happened. Despite the war, it was beginning to pick up before we left to come back here two years ago. But it stopped abrupdy. Merchants who travelled north didn't return. Elven vessels have reported seeing lights in the sky and felt a sense of wrong that no sailor will ignore. Ship's mages think they have felt the edges of Communion, but faint and desperate. That's why they won't land.'

'Don't expect me to cry if they've managed to destroy Balaia. We did what we could. Everything they suffer they have brought on themselves.'

'The Al-Arynaar who stayed to help Julatsa have not returned. We sent others north a year ago to find out why and they are gone too but we can't sense any of them among Shorth's children.'

'Who?'

'Shorth's children is the name we give to the dead. He looks over them.'

'I thought he was a figure of fear,' said Hirad.

'Only to those who are our enemies,' said Kild'aar. 'A god of the dead is not necessarily vengeful on his own people. Ours is benevolent to those who serve our people well in life.'

'I'm sorry for those you may have lost in Julatsa,' said Hirad. 'But

it sounds to me like the college has fallen. Either to Dordover or Xetesk, it makes little difference.'

But both Rebraal and Kild'aar were shaking their heads.

'Something else you're not telling me?'

The two elves exchanged glances. Rebraal motioned the elder to speak.

'In our mythology there is the belief that the dead face an enemy from whom they were sheltered in life. That death is a constant battle to achieve peace and sanctity of the soul. It is a belief shared with those on your continent Rebraal tells me, you call the Wesmen.'

T wouldn't put yourselves in the same arena as them. Hardly worthy,' said Hirad.

'Do not scoff at what you do not understand,' said Kild'aar sharply. 'They have a link to Shorth's children, this is certain.'

'Oh, come off it. That's all just primitive beliefs.'

'At least they have beliefs!' snapped Kild'aar. 'That is the problem with humans. You have denied the teachings of generations and lost your religion and now it is coming back to haunt you. But like with everything you people do, you don't think. And once again, you bring us trouble. This time to our dead.'

'Gods burning, Kild'aar, calm down,' said Hirad. 'You're blaming me for things I have no control over. Just tell me how I can help, that's all I need to know.'

'You need to know what all tiiis is based on,' said Kild'aar.

'No I don't,' said Hirad. 'Learning and me never went well together. Ilkar would tell you just to point me at the problem and tell me how to deal with it.'

Rebraal chuckled. 'He's right of course. But so is Kild'aar, Hirad. Look, this is what you need to know. You understand dimensions, you know the dragons have one and we have one. So do the dead, that is our belief, or else where do they go? No, don't answer that. I'm not suggesting we could ever go there, it is hidden. But there are creatures who travel space and feed off the very thing that all creatures alive and dead hold. Life force, soul, call it whatever you want. Such is our belief

'You're talking about the demons,' whispered Hirad, a chill stealing across him.

'If that is what you call them,' said Kild'aar.

'We need Denser and Erienne,' said Hirad. 'They would know what to do.'

T think we will need the whole of The Raven. I have already taken the liberty of calling Thraun from the ClawBound patrols and messengers have been sent to Ysundeneth to find Darrick,' said Rebraal. 'I'm sorry, Hirad, but for such as yourself, there doesn't seem to be any peace. Not for ever.'

Hirad shrugged. 'But can even we do anything? I don't understand, how can we help Ilkar?'

'We aren't sure,' said Kild'aar. 'And it will involve all of us. Humans, Wesmen and elves. But there is something about The Raven that burns brighter than life. Together, you can achieve that which as individuals you cannot. That none of us can. I can't explain it. But Rebraal and Auum have seen it and all who meet you can feel it. If we are right the task is immense, perhaps impossible, but we must attempt it.'

'You aren't telling me anything I don't know already. What I don't know is what The Raven can do. Besides killing ourselves and standing by Ilkar, that is. So I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll travel to Herendeneth with Thraun and Darrick if they want to go. The Raven will talk and we will decide. That's our way.'

'It is all we ask,' said Kild'aar.

Hirad nodded. 'You know, I've understood almost nothing of what you have said and I'm finding it hard to believe the rest. But I do know what I dreamed and if you say that means Ilkar is in trouble somehow, I will not rest until he is saved, whatever it takes. But first, I'm going to return to my bed, talk to Sha-Kaan. Perhaps he can explain it to me.'

'The dragons would be a useful ally,' said Rebraal.

'They call the demons "Arakhe", you know,' said Hirad, getting up and placing his mug on the table between them. 'What do you call them?'

' "Cursyrd",' said Kild'aar. 'The robbers of fife.'

'We should start first thing in the morning. Will Thraun be here?'

'Yes,' said Rebraal. 'Hirad. Thank you.'

'I'm not doing this for any of us. Not for Balaia or Calaius. I'm doing it for Ilkar because he is Raven and he needs us.' He laughed, surprising even himself. 'You know it's incredible. What is it about that elf? Even dead, he can't keep out of bloody trouble.'

Chapter 9

Thraun had heard the ClawBound communication and knew it concerned him. He had spent the last days running as a panther's shadow while she worked. Her partner had welcomed the wolf and together they had shown him so much of the ways of the forest and he had learned to love it again.

Two years and the only other man he had seen in that time had been Hirad. He missed the barbarian sometimes but in the rainforest, away from all the prejudices of man and the memories of the pack, he had learned to understand himself just as he slowly understood the ways of die ClawBound.

Nothing was quite as alive as the Calaian rainforest. Its sights, smells, joys and dangers. He had thrilled to hunt as a wolf and delighted in tracking as a man. He spoke the language of the panther, knew the signs of the ClawBound elves and spoke easily with Al-Arynaar and TaiGethen. He had never felt more at peace with himself in either form.

He knew why he had been accepted so easily where Hirad, for all his strengths, had struggled for three seasons at least. It was because he was not pure human and because he was looking for a new way to live and had an innate understanding of the ways of the forest. Hirad tried hard, but in the end he would always be making the best of what he had and yearning for the life he did not.

Still, Hirad had become an accomplished hunter and tracker and the elves respected him.

The communication had the overtones of sorrow laid on it because there were some of Tual's creatures who would be leaving the rainforest and none knew when they would return. He could not grasp the nuances but he was undoubtedly one of the subjects.

There had just been a prolonged downpour and the forest at

night smelled fresh, clean and vibrant. Thraun stood and brushed water from his clothes. The panther lay beside him, her head resting on her front paws, her eyes fixed on him. The ClawBound elf was crouched a little further distant, but at the sound of the communication he had taken up the calls and had walked back to stand by his partner.

'It is me, isn't it?' said Thraun.

The elf nodded, his white-and-black-halved face impassive. He pointed away down the trails that led to Taanepol, where Hirad lived.

'Others too,'he said, voice gruff and forced.

'Lead on,' said Thraun.

He bent down and kissed the panther on her forehead. She growled, pleased. 'We will run as brother and sister again another day.'

The panther's ears pricked and she shot to her feet, looking north into the rainforest. Thraun heard a low call and the ClawBound relaxed. He became aware of sounds that he would not have picked up two years before, not as a man at any rate.

Auum, Duele and Evunn emerged from the vegetation. He greeted them each with the bear- hug that had become his trademark.

'What's happening?' he asked.

'Shorth's children need us,' said Auum. 'And they need you too.'

'Why?'

'Because Ilkar is among them and Hirad needs The Raven.'

Thraun stopped in his tracks. The rain began again, pounding on the canopy above and searching towards the ground, spattering leaves and trunks, quietening the wildlife. Duele touched his arm. Thraun looked into the TaiGethen's face, saw the fading scar there from Hirad's accident with the jaqrui.

'You will understand,' he said. 'We will explain on the way. But now we must go.'

'Tai,' said Auum. 'We move.'

'Now release the power gently into your mind and channel it through your construct,' said Cleress. 'Feel how the elements stay

around you, nipping at your fingers, but they can't release their energies because you have the control.'

'It hurts,' grated Erienne. 'Gods, woman, it hurts.'

'Hang on to it for a moment longer. Feel the pressure points and know you can eliminate any part of the elemental structure at any time for the effect you desire.'

'The effect I want is not to have every muscle screaming at me.'

'I think you might be exaggerating slightly but still, time to relax. Let it go but in control. See the power release harmlessly. Now stop. The shape you have, what will it do if you release hard and close off earth and stone as you do?'

'It'll rain won't it?'

'Find out. And don't worry, you won't do any harm.'

Erienne drew a breath, looked across at the ancient, stooped elf bathed in beautiful warm sunlight under a cloudless sky and scowled.

'I wish you wouldn't make me do this,' she said.

'Go on. I'll keep them off you.' She picked up one of the sticks she'd been leaning on and waved it minutely.

T feel safer already,' said Erienne. She released the construct.

Elemental energy surged out of her mind and into the air. Broken from its shell, it fed on that around it, seeking equilibrium. As instructed, Erienne had shut off the energy from earth and stone, keeping it within her to bleed harmlessly back to its natural state.

What was left reacted immediately in the air above Herendeneth. Cloud boiled from nowhere, forming a dense black covering in moments. Mana light flashed within it, setting off the anticipated reaction. The deluge was brief but intense, drops the size of her thumb thundering into the ground, driving up spats of dirt and flattening leaves and grass to the earth.

Erienne laughed at the result and the relief in her body and clapped her hands. She looked down at the beautiful bed of flowers at her feet, soaking up the moisture.

'See that, Lyanna, see what Mummy can do!'

She knelt as she always did after they had finished a session and spoke words only Lyanna could hear.

'So much we owe to you, my darling,' she said, moving specks of wet earth from yellow and blue petals. 'So much we still have to

learn. Remember I always love you and so does your father though I can hear him shouting even now. It's not at you. It's at me. Lie and rest.' She trailed her fingers through the blooms covering the grave. 'See what your beauty makes grow?'

She stood up. Cleress, bedraggled but smiling, was watching her, leaning heavily on her sticks. Behind her, Erienne could see Denser marching towards them, shaking his head.

'Here comes the complaint,' said Erienne, wiping rain and a tear from her face and smoothing down her soaking hair.

Above her, the clouds dispersed as quickly as they had come and the sun got to work drying out the ground.

'Was that really necessary?' called Denser. 'I had been reading. A little warning would have been nice.'

'The pages will dry out quickly enough,' said Cleress. 'And we are done for the day. I need a rest before dinner.'

'Wait a moment and I'll help you in,' said Denser. He walked to Erienne and gave her a kiss. 'Feel better for doing that?'

'Actually, yes,' said Erienne. 'Today was a breakthrough day.'

T can see where that would be useful. Deserts and such.'

'As ever you miss the point,' said Cleress, swapping a conspiratorial glance with Erienne. 'You see, the secret of the One lies not in learning individual castings for individual effect but understanding the nature of the elements and the nature of your problem. Then, all you have to do is bring the two together. Erienne has all but grasped it, but for a few control exercises that need more work.'

'Then what?' asked Denser.

'Then I can at last die and join my sisters,' said Cleress. Her smile was brief and Erienne didn't like what was behind it. T worry about them, you know. It is so long since I heard them. All there is now is a wailing. I do worry so.'

'I'm not with you,' said Erienne.

'No, dear, of course not.' Cleress turned to begin the slow walk to the house. 'Denser, if you would be so kind.'

Erienne stood and watched them go, frowning. She wondered if Denser had been listening to the Al-Drechar. She knew he didn't always. He felt her to be edging into senility and it was true she rambled from time to time. What it was she dreamed she heard from her sisters probably fell into that category.

'But you don't really believe that, do you Erienne?' she said to herself.

Shaking her head, she knelt to tidy Lyanna's gave.

The Unknown pushed Diera's sodden hair from her face and kissed her lips. Caught in Erienne's downpour, they could do nothing else but laugh under the warm rain and try to hide the bread and cheese. Unsuccessfully. Some of it washed over the rock on which they were sitting and into the ocean. The Unknown had pushed the rest after it.

'I hope Jonas wasn't caught in that,' said Diera.

T doubt it,' said The Unknown. 'Anyway, he'll be as wet as us but by choice. He's still over at Sand Island swimming with Ark.'

Ever the doubt was in Diera's eyes when she knew her little boy was with any of the ex- Protectors. Nothing The Unknown could do would completely convince her they were safe. She had seen them under the control of Xetesk and knew what they could do. Even now, two years on and with their masked, thralled lives and painful memories, she was unsure.

'Will he be safe?' she said.

'Ark's the best swimmer amongst them,' said The Unknown.

'You know what I mean, Sol,' she replied.

'Yes, which was why I answered a different question. You already know the answer to the other one. You ask it every time.'

'He's my son,' she said.

'Hey, I'm not criticising,' said The Unknown.

'Come on, let's go down to the landing. Wait for them.'

'You go.' The Unknown helped Diera to her feet and crushed her to him. 'Think I'll walk the estate. Have a think to myself.'

Diera looked into his eyes. He held her gaze and tried to smile but it didn't convince her.

'You still miss it all, don't you?' she said.

'It's in my blood,' he replied. 'Balaia is my home. I'd so love to take you back one day, you and Jonas. Do what we set out to do.'

He looked past her at the house and the lands surrounding it on the small southern island of Herendeneth. They had worked miracles in their time here the last two years. He and the five remaining ex-Protectors had rebuilt the house, turned some of the land into

fertile crop land and brought more animals to farm from Calaius. But it wasn't his and he wanted that so badly. Something he could build and pass onto his family.

And of course, he wasn't the only one itching for change. The Protectors needed their own lives. Gods, Hirad and Darrick had only lasted a season here before getting bored to the point of madness. Only Denser and Erienne seemed content. But then, they had everything they wanted.

'And yes, I miss the loudmouth and I wonder what's happened to Tomas, Maris and Rhob in Korina. We didn't get the chance to say goodbye to them. But I know how much you love it here. It is so peaceful. And Jonas ... he is the most beautiful child and I wouldn't sully his innocence for anything. But one day he'll be curious. He'll know this isn't it.'

'So we'll go back. But only when it's safe,' said Diera.

'And when will we know that, I wonder?'

'One day, Jevin and the Calaian Sun will sail into the channel and what you hear will tell you all you need to know. Perhaps we'll all go back then. What do you say?'

'I say I love the images you paint.' He planted another kiss on her mouth and shoved her gently towards the path to the landing. 'So you'll always know where to find me, won't you? Right here, looking for sails on the horizon.'

Diera turned. 'Never leave me again. Promise.'

'Never. I promise.'

By Darrick put his head in his hands and sighed long. 'Gods, this is like pulling teeth,' he muttered.

It was another ridiculously humid day though he'd been assured of fresher air on die coast. And last time he looked, Ysundeneth was still on the coast. It had been like this ten days straight now. He couldn't sleep, he had no appetite and it was grating on his nerves. And in the paddock in front of him, his apprentice was deliberately misunderstanding everything he was saying.

The young elf stood up and brushed himself down, turned to see the stallion standing irritably on the opposite side of the ring, its tail swishing. It snorted.

'What did I tell you just now?'

'Don't approach from the back?' he ventured.

'Right. So could you confirm by pointing which end is the front?'

The boy pointed. That was something else. No sense of irony. Clearly Ilkar had learned his over long years of exposure to Hirad.

'Correct, the end with the teeth and the rolling eyes. Now, I'll tell you once more, and go carefully this time. Approach steadily and calmly from the front and let him see you all the way. If you surprise him you'll end up flat on your back again if you try and mount him.

'Let him get used to you before you get a hold of the bridle and then move down his flank slowly. Make sure you keep in physical contact. Only then put your foot in the stirrup. Do it slowly and calmly and should be skitter, back off and try again. I'll tell you when to be more forceful, all right?'

'Yes, General,' said the boy.

'Go on then, he won't bite.' Actually, he might, thought Darrick.

Dear Gods drowning, would he ever be able to let the boy loose on a horse not already broken in? Stupid thing was, when he was up in the saddle, the boy was a natural, which wasn't something you could say for many elves.

And it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. He had brought half a dozen horses with him from Balaia when The Raven had left the continent, all courtesy of a very generous Baron Blackthorne. His idea had always been to breed them and introduce them to the elves after a short stop on Herendeneth. The elves knew precious little about horses and, if nothing else, learning to ride could be an expensive gift for rich children.

From a business point of view, it worked very well. Blackthorne's horses were good stock and he was anticipating a third generation. They should be the calmest yet, now he didn't have to rely on the old stallion. Great horse to ride. A bugger for passing on his bad temper, though.

He watched the boy approaching the horse. It eyed him warily but made no move away. Better. The lad held out his hands and the horse obliged, nuzzling them before giving him a playful butt in the chest. The boy hesitated.

'Keep going, lad,' said Darrick. 'You're doing fine.'

He turned away at the sound of a cart rattling along the street behind him, pulled by mules. He waved at the owner, who nodded

back. And that was all it took for it all to go wrong again. When he returned his attention to the paddock, the boy had his foot half in the stirrup and his hand clutched the loose rein tight.

'No,' shouted Darrick. 'You're dragging his head round. He won't . . .'

The lad tried to mount. The rest was inevitable. He gave a sharp tug on the rein, forgetting he was holding it, so much was he concentrating on the stirrup, his footing and the pommel where his other hand was planted. The stallion nickered and pulled back sharply. The boy didn't know which to let go of and in the end released the pommel not the rein and still tried to get up in the saddle.

The horse trotted a pace and unbalanced bis would-be rider who fell flat on his back in the dirt with a shout of frustration.

'Give me strength,' muttered Darrick.

'You look like a man who needs a change of career,' said a voice he recognised very well indeed.

He swung round. Hirad was standing a couple of paces away. Darrick gave a shout of surprise and embraced him hard. 'Gods, Hirad, it's good to see you,' he said.

'Steady,' said Hirad, pushing him back. 'People will talk. All going well is it?'

'That depends on what you're really asking. I'm making money. I'm working with horses and other dumb animals.' He spared the boy a glance. 'Again! Bruising is good for the character. And don't think that about me. You'll thank me later.'

Hirad was laughing. 'Glad to see you've kept your cool.'

'Hirad, I have to tell you something. I am so bored.''

The barbarian's smile broadened. 'So if I was to suggest something with rather more potential for excitement what would you think?'

'I'd think you were a blessing from the Gods,' said Darrick. 'So what is it?'

He'd been ignoring the other figures spread around the paddock fence while he spoke to Hirad but now he looked more closely.

'Isn't that?'

'Rebraal, yes. And Auum. And Thraun's around here somewhere too.'

'What's going on?' Darrick chewed his lip. Auum had sworn never to leave the forest again and his presence with his Tai was drawing attention. Hirad's smile had disappeared.

'We've got a problem. I'll explain on the way.'

'The way where?'

'Herendeneth. Listen, Darrick, do what you need to do here and I'll see you on the docks at nightfall. There's a tide and Jevin is going to be on it.'

Darrick stiffened. 'Tell me what is going on before I get more irritable.'

'You know how I said The Raven would never ride again? Seems I was lying.'

Chapter 10

Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, though the tide rang hollow now, stared out at another dawn and shed a tear as he had almost every day for the past two years. It was going to be another beautiful day. That was one of the things the demons had not taken from them though they had done their best. The air was perpetually cold and the quiet made late spring a sham. No birds sang, dogs barked or children played. There was no sound outside at all but the keening of despair on the breeze.

Like every day, he wondered at the conditions on the outside where the demons ruled practically unopposed. How much worse it must be for those kept alive out there; though much of the time he wallowed so far down in his own desperation that the possibility others could be in a deeper plight was inconceivable.

So little news came in from the outside. Less and less as the seasons turned and resistance inexorably weakened. At first it had been relatively straightforward. They had unsealed the catacomb vents and been able to get people into the countryside. In the early days, the demons had only attacked a few population centres. Food and water in the wilds had been plentiful and survivors had been brought into the security of Xetesk's ColdRoom network. They'd even driven the demons back from the walls of the college at one stage and taken back some of the city.

But the situation hadn't been sustainable. The use of magic was like a beacon to any demon and he had lost mages in sudden overwhelming attacks across the mage lands. Mages he could ill afford to lose.

Slowly, they had retreated as numbers dwindled as a result of demon attack and, ever increasingly, illness and a breaking of the spirit that left no room for life. There was only so much a healing

spell could do and regaining mana stamina was fraught with danger. Xetesk had had just three small areas of the catacombs the demons had still not found where a mage could sleep outside a ColdRoom, replenish and cast. And always under the eyes of guards ready to pull them the few inches back to relative sanctuary should they be discovered.

Now, the Xeteskian sphere of influence covered just the tower complex and the catacombs north. Everything else belonged to the demons. Scouting parties still searched for food and fuel but their sorties were the stuff of nightmare. Only the knowledge of starvation kept men venturing out under the rolling ColdRooms they had perfected when all they had in plentiful supply was time. But nothing could guarantee their safety. It was genuinely incredible what men and women could achieve when there really was no other option.

At least they had water. Wells had been dug in the catacombs. And that meant they could eke out what little food they had into thin stews as well as drink their fill. They could heat their food too. Stones fired with focused Orbs or FlamePalm were more than adequate but another drain on stretched mana reserves.

Dystran looked out for as long as he could at the flitting shapes of the demons about their business in Xetesk and beyond; and at the slash in the sky that was the most hated symbol of Balaia's almost total subjugation. From irritants the size of kittens to the tentacled monstrosities they had dubbed 'enforcers', all had their purpose, all had their place. That fact of their organisation maddened him because it had become so clear that in their thousand-year association with demons, they had learned nothing about them. If only the reverse had also been true. If only.

But it was the people that he saw that depressed him. And it dragged at his soul when he caught one of them gazing up at the tower. Without spirit, without hope. Abandoned but still walking. And still building, growing, eating and sleeping. Still, he was convinced, breeding. They had to of course. There was that part of the human that denied even the most cataclysmic situation. And above that, there were the demons, seeing to it that all was done to their design.

It was the reason he came up here and shed tears every day and why all who survived looked out every day too. He had to remind himself why he still fought because in the base of the complex hope

fled so easily. He knew what he was looking at down there. It was a farm.

Dystran turned from the window, weary despite the early hour. He caught sight of himself in a mirror and shuddered. Gaunt. Sunken eyes and cheeks. Skin flaking and blotched. Patchy beard and hair hacked short as pitiful defence against the lice. A quivering line for a mouth, lips pale and split. And he was one of the fitter ones. He had no choice. Soldiers and mages got the greater shares of food.

He signalled to the two soldiers who went everywhere with him.

'Let's go,' he said. He spared a glance across at Ranyl's tower, shuttered and abandoned. 'Gods be thanked that you didn't live to see this, old dog.'

'My Lord?'

'Nothing.'

They began the descent to the dome. Below them, teams of mages kept ColdRooms linked to provide best coverage of as wide an area as they could. He had seventy-eight mages, a hundred-plus soldiers and another two hundred-odd souls to protect. Pitiful.

Not far down, the sour smells of the last resistance of Xetesk hit him. Ventilation was not enough alone. They could not clean or scrub adequately, they had to bury their waste in catacomb tunnels but they could not lime it. Around four hundred people living and breathing for the most part in tight conditions because they felt there was safety in numbers. Gods burning, it was one of the few things they could cling on to.

There had to be something they'd all overlooked. Something that would give them the spark they needed to strike with purpose, not merely seek to exist another day. After two years it seemed faint hope.

A thought struck Dystran then. There had to be a reason why the demons seemed content to let them live like this. How long had it been since a concerted attack, a season or more, surely? It didn't make sense and it irked Dystran that it had never occurred to him to wonder why before now. The life force of a mage was so prized by demons. Their connection with mana made them burn bright. For a demon, comparing a mage to a non-mage was a fine Blackthorne red wine as compared with vinegar.

Yet every day, they must know they risked mages dying. It could

be that they were not as numerous as he assumed but he wasn't sure that would make enough of a difference. Gods drowning, but they no longer even sacrificed city people in front of them to make them surrender.

Something in the demons' plans meant that keeping all the college cores where they were, helpless but alive, was the right way to go. It was a change in strategy from the constant attacks of seasons gone by. Now it was like they were waiting. But for what?

There had to be information and knowledge buried somewhere.

'Where are Suarav and Chandyr? Where's Sharyr?'

'All in the banqueting hall, my Lord.' A sad irony at breakfast time.

'Good. Take me there.'

It was time for another raid on the library.

Pheone took her shift like they all did. And every moment outside the college grounds was terrifying. It tore at her gut and tripped up her heartbeat. It gnawed at her belief and concentration. The knowledge of what she was doing was what kept her focused. It was the only thing that could.

She slipped out of the tunnel entrance and into the heart of the city. It was a tunnel they had dug without the aid of magic and because they would otherwise starve, so tight was the ring of demons around them. She had ordered another dug too. One day, the demons would find this one. They found everything eventually.

And to think that Julatsa should consider itself fortunate. When the demons had flooded Balaia, they had been given warning. A panicked Communion from a Dordovan mage had been picked up by Pheone's spectrum analysts. It had been cut off abruptly but had brought them precious hours to prepare. Mages had been called back into the college grounds. The grain store was cleared and the contents moved. City guardsmen were invited to leave their perimeters and beats. Livestock had been driven into the courtyard.

It was a time when Pheone had found her heart to be unyielding. They had assessed quickly how many souls they could shelter and had taken them from the streets. Whole families where they could. Smiths, builders and healers too. No sentimentality. It was only about survival.

They had plotted the ColdRoom coverage, ensuring wells and stores were well protected, and had withdrawn everyone they wanted behind the repaired college gates. The council had pleaded with her to let them in as panic had gripped the city riding on rumour and hearsay. The mayor had promised them the wealth of Julatsa for personal salvation. They had threatened to storm the gates but they didn't have the strength. Julatsa's mages were backed by Al-Arynaar swords, bows and magic.

She would for ever recall the last words she spoke to the mayor before the gates were sealed with WardLocks.

'Your money means nothing as does your word. Much as the life of every elf and mage in this college meant nothing to you when Xetesk invaded. Where was your loyalty then? We asked for your help. You refused. Reap what you sow.'

And thus she had condemned him to a life of servitude or, if he was lucky, a quick death. She felt no pity for him or his council of cowards. But for those innocents they could not take, she had wept hard. For them, the curse of magic had surely struck its final and most devastating blow and unleashed on them an enemy they could not combat.

Mages were their only hope but mages across Balaia were struggling merely to survive; those that were left. It was a cruel irony that Julatsa, once just hours from extinction was, a few days later given the information she had gleaned, surely the most powerful college.

Julatsa boasted almost one hundred and eighty mages, Al-Arynaar and current Julatsans, and almost two hundred of the elven warriors had also still been in the college when the demons attacked. They were still so strong in mind and body. Truly amazing people. So determined, so resolute. They kept the college going through the earliest and darkest days. They hunted, they fought and they survived. It simply did not occur to them that they might be beaten.

The demons were wary of them too, which was the one ray of real hope they could work on. Elven souls couldn't be taken by mere touch. Dila'heth said their god of the dead, Shorth, protected them.

Whatever it was, it meant that the elves chose to travel without ColdRoom spells when they foraged. And humans like Pheone simply had to trust them when it was their turn to provide mage

back-up. She knew how effective they were but their tactics still couldn't assuage her base fear.

There were six elves with her. Five warriors and one mage, all whispering through the silent street towards the immaculate and high-yielding farm land that had been created on the city's borders. At one time they had developed a conscience about stealing this food. But when the reprisals for doing so had ceased and it became clear that they were as good as being catered for, that guilt ebbed quickly away.

The paradox of course was that demons still guarded the farm land. They were happy to exact revenge for attempted theft if they could while apparently conceding the necessity for over- supply because theft was often successful. And for their part, fhe elves were happy to take them on if the need arose.

'We all have our demons,' Dila'heth had said. 'But you have named yours and they are real as well as being that dark part of the psyche we all harbour. Of course they have power over you. They are your nemesis. It is not so with the elves. Our association was never so close. Never myth made real.

'For you they are the descent. Everything your mothers and your priests warned you about. For us they are a powerful adversary but in the end just an alternate race. They have a place in our legends but that is because they threaten Shorth's children, not the living.'

'You're saying the reason we're vulnerable is a difference in perspective?' she'd asked.

'State of mind and belief are powerful. The touch of a demon can kill you. It cannot kill us unless our will is broken. Shorth protects us but our souls are bonded into our faith and our

race. It makes us strong. You are individuals so you are vulnerable.

'Humans have never really understood what binds a people. It is a shame for you that the demons do.'

Creeping through gently waving stalks of spring crops, it was hard to disagree with her. The elves had an intuitive understanding of each other. They barely needed to speak or gesture. But she remained ultimately unconvinced of Dila's reasoning. She, like all elves, held her faith up as the reason for every circumstance. Pheone considered their greater resistance to a demon's touch was their innate link to mana.

Ahead of her, the elves had stopped moving. Lost in her thoughts, Pheone almost stumbled into the warrior in front of her. He turned and placed a finger on his lips, then pointed to his eyes and out across the fields to the livestock barns. Darkened for camouflage, shapes moved against the walls. Demons. Dila'heth had made it seem such a dramatic name but it was what they were. To humans at least.

The raiding party crouched low in the field, out of sight unless they were overflown.

'They are few,' said Kineen, the leader of the group. 'It is a chance.'

'A chance for what?' whispered Pheone.

'To take breeding pairs,' said Kineen. 'We need more livestock.'

Pheone paused, hearing the leaves wave about her head. Ahead, a cow lowed.

'Couldn't we have had this discussion before we left?' she asked.

'To what purpose? There could be no decision until now. We know you will support us.'

'You want to steal livestock?' A nod. 'And drive them back down the tunnel without killing them and without the demons finding the entrance?'

Kineen managed a brief smile. 'The animals will not be conscious for the way back. We will deal with that. Four demons are circling the barn. We need to take them all together but we won't have much time between casting and more arriving. You will have to be quick.'

Pheone blew out her cheeks. Her heart was crashing in her chest and sweat was beading at her hairline. She felt a shiver in her limbs. She only hoped that when the time came, she could muster up the concentration to cast.

'Just tell me what you want me to cast.'

Another smile from Kineen. 'Good. And Pheone. Run when we tell you and don't look back.'

The five warriors fanned out into the field, keeping below the line of the crop. Pheone and the other mage, Afen'erei, moved in behind them. Neither prepared yet. The mana spectrum had to be kept quiet until the last possible moment. After a few yards, the two

archers split off left, increasing their pace, hurrying for one end of the barn.

Pheone could just about make out the demons now. Four of them, a little smaller than man- size with wings and tails. Their vein-run skin writhed. Every inch the archetypal figures of nightmare. It was the shape most had adopted on arrival in Julatsa. She presumed they found it easier to control their human flock that way.

'Hit them when they clear the barn to your right,' said Afen'erei.

'Got you.'

'IceWind and DeathHail are best. Something quick to cast.'

Pheone nodded. She'd have preferred to crush them with a ForceCone but they couldn't risk the barn collapsing under the pressure.

The three sword elves were running now, feet silent over the ground. They broke cover at the instant the first arrows struck the demons, deflecting their attention. The fact that the shafts couldn't kill didn't stop wounds hurting and the demons wailed in pain, shaft after shaft thudding home. They had not gathered themselves to attack before the warriors were on them.

Swords swept from scabbards and the blows rained in. Pheone saw it all in a kind of detached awe. The relentless motion, the speed of the strike. All to a purpose. Swords bit into heads and

arms, sliced through wing membrane. Feet thudded into gut, groin and temple. Disorientating, temporarily disabling. The demons had practically no reply. They lashed out with claws and tails or tried to bite. But the ferocity of the elves made mockery of their slight numerical advantage.

Only one made it into the air at all, to be brought down with arrows crippling critical wing muscle. The onslaught was quick but could it possibly be quick enough? Already, Pheone could hear the hoots of alarm that meant the cries of the attacked had been heard.

'Prepare now,' said Afen. 'No sense in delay. They are coming.'

Pheone dragged herself into the mana spectrum. It was unadorned by any casting barring the mass of activity that signified the ColdRoom lattice. She brought together the shape for IceWind, a flowing sheet of interlaced mana strands, glowing yellow with captured energy, just waiting for release when it would tatter in the face of its targets.

Almost at once, the hoots became howls and the hunt was on for those casting magic. The warriors responded, driving demons out of the shadow of the barn and into a pool of moonlight.

'Break!' called Kineen. 'Cast.'

IceWind tore away from Pheone's fingers, mingling with the slivers of DeathHail cast by Afen'erei. The effect was at once hideous and incredibly satisfying. Where Afen's spell gouged strips of flesh from the demons, Pheone's IceWind ignited the loose mana so freed, feeding on it as a FlameOrb did on human flesh, gorging, consuming.

The demons screamed, their voices like those of infants in agony, tearing at Pheone's heart and dashing her concentration. The IceWind ceased but the damage had been done. Again, a solitary demon took to the air but it was little more than a mass of pure blue flame, bubbling a few feet up and crashing back to earth, wing beating feebly at the ground.

'Go!' shouted Kineen. His warriors and archers ran for the barn doors. 'Pheone, retreat.'

'No.' She felt alive, vindicated. In two years, these were her first victims among the thousands that occupied her city and she found herself hungry for more. 'I'll defend you.'

'They can outrun you,' said Afen. 'But not us.'

Pheone looked to her left. Shadows climbed thick into the sky. Far right, she heard the pounding of feet in scrub. It was no time for heroics.

'Don't get caught,' she said, turning and running back into the field of spring crop, retracing her steps back into the city.

Behind her the yellow bloom of a spell lit the sky and a flat crack spoke of a FlameOrb detonating. More screams of dying children, this time further out of the city, away from the barn. Pheone smiled. A diversion.

The part-focused mana from the castings brought the demons to it, searching for the prized life force that only a mage possessed. Pheone ran harder, her ears playing games with her mind. She fancied she could hear a gravel-laden voice calling her name but it could have been the breeze through the crops. Wings beat close to her head though it could have been wind- echo.

She was alone and unguarded in this demon-run city of the

walking dead. She broke through the crops and into the streets, trying to keep her footfalls quiet and maintain her speed. But all she produced was a dry slapping that sounded like a herald of her passage.

Pheone slowed, ducked into heavy shadow and stopped, breathing hard. She heard no sounds of pursuit. The howling of enraged demons was distant but she knew she couldn't relax. She studied the silent buildings while she caught her breath. No one lived here any more. The demons had herded everyone they'd kept alive into the centre of the city, where they were penned and housed like animals.

A hand clamped across her mouth. She felt breath on her neck. She tried to struggle and scream but she was held tight. She let herself relax, made herself think. Kineen's face came into view and she all but wept. He released her.

'Bad place to stop,' he said. 'They are closer than you think.'

'Gods burning, you almost frightened me to death,' she managed, relieved and angry.

'Sorry,' he said and set off towards the tunnel entrance and safety. 'I couldn't risk you screaming.'

She followed him, nodding. 'What about the others?'

'They have taken other routes to split the pursuit. We have four lambs, four piglets. A good raid.'

Pheone smiled, feeling safe though she ought not to. Only she was safe enough here, wasn't she? Here in a quiet empty back street the demons never travelled; as much as inside the college where they never attacked but just watched. No. Waited.

She caught up with Kineen. 'Why don't they attack the college anymore?'

'They fear us.'

'Yes but that's not all of it, is it?'

Kineen glanced across at her. A few more turns and they were home. 'It is why we fight them out here.'

'What do you mean?'

'To keep that for which they wait as distant as we can.'

Deep inside the crypts of Dordover, the last remaining bastion of college resistance huddled. Barely two dozen were left now. The onslaught had been relendess. They hadn't been able to replenish

stamina outside the ColdRooms when the demons had found all their borders and they had too little strength to cure all the afflicted when disease had struck. Dysentery had stolen their best mages once it had taken their ability to heal themselves and now the demons were coming after what was left. They could sense the weakening. The ColdRooms were not secure, the casters were weak and the swordsmen barely had the muscle to raise their blades.

Vuldaroq, a shadow of the obese bulk he had been two years before, listened to the battering on the doors of the outer crypts. They had fled here the night before and had nothing with them. The Heart of the college was below them and they could no longer reach it.

He dragged himself to his feet and looked around the chill, lantern-lit chamber.

'They will be here soon,' he said. 'They must not take any of our souls.'

A swordsman, Marn, turned to him. 'The college must survive,' he said. 'Even if none live here until the demons are defeated. We cannot let our light fail.'

Vuldaroq managed a smile. 'That you still have hope makes you the strongest among us, my friend.'

'Not for myself, my Lord Vuldaroq, but for you and the mages we still have.' He gestured about him. 'We have been talking, the non-mages I mean. If you all have the stamina left for one more casting, there is a chance you can escape.'

Vuldaroq shook his head. He was tired. The bluster and arrogance he had carried were long since gone and he had developed an unflinching loyalty to those who had fought the demons so bravely though their efforts were ultimately to end in failure.

'We will take our lives here, leave them nothing to leech from us,' he said. 'It is as we agreed, Marn. We will die together.'

'No,' said Marn. 'It is you they want, you they prize. We can get you out.'

'How? We are trapped.'

'Yes, my Lord, but not yet quite helpless.'

Vuldaroq listened on and the spark of chance warmed his heart once more.

Chapter 11

'Unknown!'

Hirad's shout shattered the peace of Herendeneth, setting birds to flight and scattering the cattle in the yard behind the house. He pounded up the track from the landing, not even noticing the swaying trees to either side that flanked the path with such grace. All he could see was the man he hadn't laid eyes on for well over a year. It was a great sight.

The big man was dressed in light linens, his shaven head hidden from the sun under a tied- back cloth. The smile on his face was broad and his bulk almost blocked out his wife and child standing a little way behind him.

Hirad hurtled into his embrace, rocking him back a step. The two old friends spun each other around, the barbarian kissing him on the cheek before stepping back.

'Surprised?'

'I thought you'd gone elven native,' said The Unknown. 'It's wonderful to see you looking so well. Still off the wine?'

Hirad wrinkled his nose. 'They have something almost as good. Made from some tree sap or other.' He blew. 'Very sweet, very powerful.'

'So not wine at all then. Got some young stuff you should try.'

'When on Calaius, Unknown . . .'

The Unknown shook his head. 'Very funny. Seriously though, how have you been? There's a lightness about you, I'll say that.'

'Life with Auum teaches you a few things.'

'Hasn't quietened your voice though, I see,' said Diera.

Hirad stepped around The Unknown, kissed Diera and ruffled Jonas's blond hair. The boy hid behind his mother's skirts.

'And a good morning to you, Lady Unknown,' he said.

'It's good to see you, Hirad. It's been too long.'

'Yeah,' said Hirad, stepping back and taking them all in, feeling the guilt begin to nag at him like it always did when he saw them standing together, the perfect family. 'Yeah it has.'

'Come on up to the house, it's almost time for lunch anyway. Denser and Erienne are going to get a real surprise,' said Diera.

'Yes, they are,' said Hirad, unable to keep the light in his expression.

'So,' said The Unknown, slapping him on the back. 'You've got a year or more to fill me in on, man-elf. How long is Jevin staying for or is the Catalan Sun coming back to pick you up another time?'

'He'll be here a few days. As long as necessary, really,' said Hirad. 'Look, Unknown'

But The Unknown wasn't listening to him. There were voices coming from around the corner in the path, still just out of sight.

'Who's that man, Mummy?' asked a small voice.

'That's Hirad, sweetheart, one of your father's . . .'

She trailed off, sensing the tension that had stolen through every muscle of The Unknown's body. Hirad looked briefly at her, saw the colour drain from her face and the tears already beginning to well up behind her eyes.

'Brought some friends with me, Unknown,' he said, voice close to cracking. 'I'm sorry, Diera, I'm so sorry.'

And round the corner they came, their smiles and greetings dying on their lips as the scene unfolded before them. The Unknown spared Hirad a dangerous look and turned back to watch them approach, most of them people he hadn't ever thought to see again. Darrick, Thraun, Rebraal, Auum, Duele, Evunn.

'Hirad, what is going on?' he hissed.

'Think we'll be all needing that drink,' said Hirad.

Whatever it was The Unknown said next, Hirad lost in the sound of Jonas beginning to cry and Diera shouting 'no' over and over.

'There, see it?' Kayvel was pointing out over the south-west of Lystern.

Heryst was one of a dozen faces pressed against the highest window in the tower. The day was dull and drizzling, adding to the misery of the population of the enslaved city. He could barely

concentrate on what he was supposed to be trying to see, his eyes as always drawn to the perpetual terrified drudgery that unfolded daily beneath him.

The demons had assembled the people they wanted to keep alive into buildings ringing the college and had cleared areas of the city in full view of the rebellious mages for crops and livestock. It was a reminder every heartbeat if one were needed of the Lysternans' failure to do any more than survive.

In two years, while they had expanded their domain within the college, nothing outside of it belonged to them. They had wells under their control but had to raid farms for food or fly high and fast to hunt or forage in distant areas still apparently ignored by the invaders. Those making the flights had at least brought back information about the wider state of Balaia and it made grim listening.

Those still living outside the control of demons lived in constant fear of being the next into the inexorably expanding net. In addition to the college cities, all major population centres bar one were in thrall. Korina, Gyernath and all the northern and eastern baronies were captured, leaving only Blackthorne as a bastion in the south. It was a testament to Baron Blackthorne's skill and farsightedness that he still remained free, if that term could really be applied to any of them. Only Blackthorne outside of the colleges had refused to victimise and drive away the mages in his town or employ when the Black Wings were at their height of influence. He was alive now because of that decision.

In the scattered villages, isolated farmsteads and hamlets, a subsistence life went on but there was precious little travel or trade. After all, the demons controlled every marketplace and port and had thrown an impenetrable ring around Blackthorne. Those living in these small communities would all have fled but there were no ships to anywhere. Some had tried to make it to Understone Pass but no news of their fate ever came back.

And everywhere the stories about what the demons were doing were the same. No one unable to father or bear children was left alive. The old, infirm and barren had been taken for their souls in the early seasons of the occupation. Those that were left were drilled into a workforce designed purely to keep them alive, let them breed

and so perpetuate the supply of souls. And while the new generation were born and grew, the demons satiated themselves by draining life force slowly, using a horrifyingly exquisite touch to draw off only that which they needed.

Heryst had seen it from the windows of the college. He wondered why the enslaved hadn't given up, taken their own lives or their children's. He had witnessed in their faces the enduring shock and incomprehension. The eyes not dead but not alive either. The look of hope extinguished.

But somewhere inside them, most of them, the will to survive still lurked. It drove them to exist through the nights of terror, the knowledge of why they were being kept alive. The human spirit, never truly broken.

Heryst knew why that inner light still burned. It was because every day they could see the college. Still holding out. A torch to guide them through their bleakest moments, something to cling on to though they were helpless themselves. It meant an expectation was laid on Heryst and those few who worked to find an answer. It was why Heryst looked out every day to remind himself. They had to strike back. They had to. If only they had the means.

'My Lord?'

'Kayvel,' said Heryst. 'I'm sorry, miles away.'

'Please, just for a moment, look away from the city.' Kayvel placed a hand on his shoulder, all it did was remind him how thin he had become.

'Show me again.'

'Look towards Xetesk, tell me what you see.'

Heryst looked. Beneath the shale-grey cloud, there was a lightness in the south-west. It was faint but it was there. Sometimes stronger, sometimes fading. There seemed to be a pale blue hue to it but that could have been a trick of the distance.

'What is that?' he asked.

'You know how you've been asking why it is the demons don't try and attack us any more?' said Kayvel.

'Yes.' Heryst shrugged and drew back from the window. 'So what?'

Kayvel pointed. 'Well, I think that's why.'

Heryst regarded him coolly. 'You're going to have to explain that.'

'Naturally.' Kayvel chuckled and scratched at his beard. They all had them these days. There were other things more important than putting the edge of a dagger to your chin every day. Until the lice struck. Then they shaved. 'We know that what we possess as mages makes our souls prized by demons. That's surely why they targeted the colleges from the outset.'

Heryst nodded, about to tell him to stop repeating the obvious when he realised Kayvel was speaking for the benefit of the whole room, which had fallen silent.

'But we saw them back off quite quickly when they knew they couldn't take us without great loss of life on their side. We know this has happened in Xetesk and Julatsa too but we don't know about Dordover. Worryingly quiet over there, if you ask me.'

A murmur ran around the room. Heryst looked round. On the council table, the ColdRoom mages were lost in their casting. Two others sat next to them, monitoring the mana spectrum as best they could for any communication through the strands of mana that linked to the spell that kept them safe. How strong they had all been against all the odds. What character had been shown by so many. Heryst didn't know about anyone else but he knew he'd have gone under a long time ago without the spirit they had engendered here.

Kayvel continued. 'So it seems clear they are waiting for something to happen before they can attack us with hope of success and without huge losses, right?'

'It's logical,' said Heryst.

'They have been completely systematic in their approach to taking Balaia. It has been a textbook conquest.'

'You sound as if you respect them for it.'

'I think we must,' said Kayvel. 'Because the chaotic creatures we read about in our myths bear no relation to the organised race we witness every day. It's time to stop thinking about them as the evil in our mythology and start thinking about them as a capable, intelligent enemy playing perfectly to their strengths.'

'Haven't we always done that?' asked a voice from the crowd that had closed in to listen.

'No, Renarn, I don't think we have,' said Kayvel to the gaunt

youth who had spoken. 'It's so difficult to change the teachings of thousands of years. Don't forget that, with the exception of Xetesk and to a certain extent Julatsa, we have never viewed demons as anything other than a nightmare symbol. They really were the story told to keep children quiet at night. Trouble is, they are far more dangerous than that. They are a dimension-travelling race seeking domination of this dimension. And they are ninety per cent there already. Once Balaia falls completely, who will stand in their way?'

'Wesmen and elves, presumably,' said Renarn.

'For how long?' asked Kayvel. 'They have come to the colleges to take out the biggest single threat to them, that of magic. The other races they can defeat at their leisure because weapons can't kill them.'

'The elves have magic,' said Renarn.

Heryst went cold. 'Not when the tower of Julatsa is destroyed.'

'Right.' Kayvel's smile was grim.

'All right.' Heryst gestured for calm as consternation swept the room. 'Come on, let's keep our focus. We're already deflected from the question, which is, what does that mist signify?' He pointed out of the window.

'It's mana,' said Kayvel.

Heryst started. T beg your pardon?'

'Think about it. What is the one thing stopping them from attacking us inside our ColdRoom constructs?'

'Mana of course.'

'Yes. It is an integral part of their being. It's armour on one level but actually it's far more than that. Without it, they die. It's clear that there's enough mana in the atmosphere of Balaia to keep them alive, but not enough to overwhelm our castings and flood the ColdRooms.' He indicated the window to the south-west. 'That, I am certain, is the demons introducing mana to the air above Xetesk for just that purpose.'

'But surely we'd feel it,' said Renarn.

'No,' said Heryst. 'Not at all. We're inside a ColdRoom here, we won't feel anything. What about those that have flown outside?'

'Well, the spectrum is turbulent, or so I'm told. But that in itself isn't proof though I challenge you to tell me another reason why it should be so. There's something more. The temperature is

dropping like it always does when mana is too concentrated. This is supposed to be late spring. It is unseasonably chilly.'

Heryst sighed and walked back to the window. He looked out on the mist with greater suspicion. 'Can it really be mana? I don't know. Don't we need to know more than anything exactly what it is the demons have planned for us? Mages and wider Balaia, I mean. Because extermination doesn't seem to be on the agenda, does it?'

'It would be incredibly useful to know,', agreed Kayvel.

'Right,' said Heryst, nodding. 'Let's go and catch ourselves a demon and ask it, then.'

It had taken The Unknown quite some time to calm Diera enough for her to take Jonas and walk the island. He didn't know how to feel. On one level he was furious with Hirad for threatening his idyll and the life he loved; just being with his family. But he knew that Hirad would not have come to Herendeneth this way unless he felt he had no choice. And indeed had he not been approached and whatever it was turned out to be Raven business, he would have been just as angry.

But he felt retired. Although he kept himself fit and sparred with Ark every day, the desire to fight had gone. He'd fought and won his battles and he'd earned the right to be here on this beautiful island, watching his son grow while his wife lay in his arms. It was almost everything he'd dreamed of though he would have preferred to have been on Balaia, and be iandlord of The Rookery too.

So he'd kept a silence to let his emotions settle while he walked ahead of the party from the Calaian Sun. He took them to the kitchen of the house, away from the sights and sun of the island. Into a place where they could focus and talk. The only time he opened his mouth was to call Denser and Erienne to join them.

And now here they sat with drinks and food in front of them, waiting for Hirad to speak. At least he had the decency to look deeply apologetic.

'So, Hirad, perhaps you can explain why you've come here bringing who you have brought with you,' said The Unknown. 'And it had better be very bloody important.'

'It's as important as it can get,' said Hirad. 'This is bigger than Dawn thief, believe me.'

The Unknown raised his eyebrows. He looked for some hint of exaggeration in Hirad's tone and found none. He felt his heart beat a little faster.

'So you have our attention.' The Unknown gestured to his left. Both Denser and Erienne were impassive but their hands gripped a little tighter together.

'Look, we don't know everything at this stage but we believe that the demons have invaded Balaia and are threatening the spirit dimension and if they can beat Balaia they can take out the dragons too.'

'Whoa, whoa!' said Denser, half laughing, his face a picture of scepticism. 'Gods burning, Hirad, that's a statement and a half. Bloody hell, I don't believe there even is a spirit dimension.'

'Then that is your weakness,' said Auum.

Denser ignored him. 'And what is this about demons? Come on, one thing at a time.'

'You wanted to know if it was important. Why it was I came here with everyone. Now you know.' Hirad sat back, his face set. The Unknown recognised it so well. That was why it worried him. Hirad wasn't given to over-egging anything.

'It's all right, Hirad,' he said. 'One thing at a time. Demons in Balaia. Let's hear that first.'

'I can't do it like that, Unknown. It's all linked together.' He stopped and chewed his lip, taking a deep breath. 'And I don't understand it all. What I do know is that if the elves think it's worth leaving Calaius for and worth coming to The Raven for then diat's all I need to know. And I know that one of The Raven is in trouble and we never leave our people that way. Never.'

'All right then, tell us whichever way you can,' said Erienne. 'Just know that this is so unexpected. We're happy here.'

'And I was happy in Taanepol. Thraun was born again in the rainforest. Some things are bigger than our happiness.'

'Gods, hasn't it always been die way?' breathed Denser.

'Yes it has,' said Hirad and The Unknown felt his regret like a wave over the beach. 'You have to understand this is the last thing I wanted.'

'What's going on, Hirad?' asked The Unknown. 'Just tell us the way you know.'

Hirad relaxed and looked to Rebraal and Auum. Both nodded for him to speak. He took a drink and was silent for a little while, gathering his thoughts.

'This all sounds so ridiculous. A few days ago, I heard Ilkar. I was asleep but it wasn't just a dream. Wherever he is now, he's in trouble. All the dead are. Rebraal will tell you. It's because the demons are attacking them on a new front. They need to break down the resistance of the Spirits because if they do it makes all of Balaia and Calaius vulnerable to them. And if that happens, the dragons are under threat too. Don't ask me to explain it because I can't. But we can stop this, if we have help and if we do it now.'

'Trouble is,' said Denser. 'Coming from you, it isn't ridiculous at all. Far-fetched, yes. Ridiculous, no.'

Hirad managed a smile. 'Thanks, Denser.'

'It doesn't mean we understand it, though,' said Erienne. 'Why does it mean Balaia's been invaded?'

'And how the hell have you heard Ilkar?' demanded The Unknown. 'He's been dead more than two years.'

'I just did, Unknown. And Rebraal has heard him too. It's too real to be just nightmares.'

'Rebraal?' asked The Unknown.

The leader of the Al-Arynaar inclined his head. 'Hirad speaks the truth as you know he does. There is so much humans don't understand about what exists outside their vision.'

'We don't need patronising,' said Denser. 'Just the facts.'

'There is a place that all the dead go, all the souls as you would call them,' said Rebraal. 'You deny it because it doesn't fit with your understanding of life and death but it exists nonetheless. It is a dimension as you understand them but the journey there is something only the soul can make, not the body. It is not a place you can ever visit though you can connect to it. Belief is everything. We know it. So do the Wesmen. It is time you knew it too.

'All the souls of the dead go there but most are silent because they don't know they can still communicate with the living. Ilkar knows as do all the elves who pass there. But right now, he shouts with a voice full of fear. The cursyrd are pressing the fabric of their realm.'

'Why?' asked Denser.

Rebraal regarded him as if he was simple. 'Because it contains

countless millions of souls. It is everything the cursyrd want if only they could force a breach.'

'Are you with this?' The Unknown asked of Darrick and Thraun.

The shapechanger nodded.

'We've been on board ship with them for three days,' said Darrick. He shrugged. T believe them.'

'Which is fine,' said Erienne. 'But I don't get the connection with Balaia and I don't see that we can do anything to help. And I don't understand why Auum and the TaiGethen are here.'

'Contact with our dead is a gift granted to us by Shorth,' said Rebraal. 'The Al-Arynaar and TaiGethen come to Aryndeneth to speak, to gain strength and to seek advice. It is written that they will defend us in death as we defend ourselves in life. We will not suffer the cursyrd to break that cycle.'

Erienne smiled, disbelieving. 'How will you stop them? This is a place you can't go to until you die. And then you will be in the same position as your dead. Helpless.'

'They are not helpless,' said Rebraal. 'They fight. Every moment. To keep the enemy away from their borders.'

'But you can't help them,' said Erienne, frustration edging her voice.

'They aren't talking about joining the battle in the spirit dimension. We have to remove the threat further back along the chain,' said Darrick.

'Great.' The Unknown stood up and paced around the table. 'This makes about as much sense as one of Hirad's battle plans. Look, I know you've all been on ship talking about this for days but it's coming across as gibberish, it really is. Ilkar's in trouble but he's dead. In fact everyone dead is in trouble and it's got something to do with a demon invasion of Balaia but the elves think they can sort it out by stopping some so far unnamed target in an unnamed place.' The Unknown felt his patience thinning to breaking point.

'My wife is scared that I'm going to leave her and go off again with The Raven. I've told her it must be something critical or you wouldn't be here. What the hell am I going to tell her? "My dead friend is sending dreams to my living friend and I need to sort it out?"' He thumped the table. 'Someone start making sense or the

lot of you can sod off back to whatever it was you were drinking on Calaius.'