Blackthorne could still see down the slope to the allied camp, where men were now running in all directions. Unwilling horses were being mounted and people starting to scatter. A half mile from them, Luke had been forced to stop.

Above them all, the star opened like the petals of some malevolent flower. For a heartbeat, Blackthorne thought the spell must have failed. No lightning was disgorged, no inter-dimensional power bit the ground. But this was not BlueStorm and in the next instant, he was forced to his knees by a high-pitched whine in his head that flattened his strength and threatened to blur his sight.

He clamped his hands over his ears but it made no difference, yet looking up, he saw that he was one of the lucky ones. The allied camp had been the target and there, the spell struck with appalling force. The river rippled and bounced in its bed, flowers and bushes were pressed down, their leaves and petals driving away as if propelled by some unseen hand.

And the men and horses. Oh dear Gods, the men and horses. Like the trees near which they stood, they sagged, helpless and writhing. Those that could, shouted and screamed. It was impossible but it seemed that they grew in size, inflated against their clothes and their skin. Men wailed and gasped, horses kicked at the air, trees ripped along their trunks, their leaves falling like autumn. And when the pressure became too much, they burst.

Like being detonated from the inside, they exploded outwards and upwards, just lumps of flesh, bone, shivered wood and skin. The debris filled the air like a cloud tinged pink and still the spell was not done as it ripped up the ground too, catapulting rock and earth high into the sky then shutting off.

Instantly, the pain eased and a fury gripped Blackthorne. He drove himself to his feet and called his men to him. And when they were all standing and ready, he charged. They bellowed their rage and their disbelief at what the Xeteskians had done, their swords whirling around in their hands, catching the sunlight.

Ahead of them, the mounted soldiers forced their horses into order and rode at them. Blackthorne felt possessed of the energy of a teenager. He rolled under the blow of a horseman, came up on to his knees and savaged his sword through the legs of the next beast past him. Not waiting to see what he had done, he rose and ran on, slashing out at another rider, feeling his blade connect he knew not where. He had one target in mind and one only.

The mages were in no condition to cast or to defend themselves but it would hardly have mattered otherwise. Blackthorne and his men fell on them like wild animals, carving through hands that tried to protect heads, splitting skulls, slicing stomachs and puncturing chests, groins and backs. And above, the familiars who had directed it all, screamed and fell as their masters died. No one was spared, no one escaped and the blood soaked into the green grass, staining it as black as the robes of the men they had slaughtered.

But that was as nothing to what the Xeteskians had wrought. When he was done and the exertion and shock fell on him like a cloak too heavy to wear, Blackthorne walked to the scene of the spell and looked on it. He felt detached from the horror and that was surely the only way he could have stayed standing and not fall to his knees, vomiting his guts into the river.

Scraps of flesh lay everywhere. It was impossible to distinguish man from beast. Blackthorne had visited an abattoir once. The waste buckets would have been full of pieces of meat this size. Chunks of gristle and bone that were no use for anything but grinding down for dog food. He could barely believe that this had ever been men.

He turned to see his men gathering behind him. Many had succumbed and were sick, others had let swords drop from nerveless fingers while they stared in complete incomprehension. It only took a moment to see that none of them could go on. Not right now and perhaps not ever. So he gave them an alternative.

'We must take news of this to Dordover and Lystern,' he said, his voice thick and shaking. 'Xetesk must be stopped. Not at Julatsa but at its very heart, in the college itself. This power can never be used again.

'Look at what they have done. Hundreds of men with no chance. Remember what you have seen here, remember why you will want to fight at the gates of the Dark College again.'

He turned and led them away.

'Contact cannot be made,' said Dystran, sitting by the bedside of his old friend Ranyl.

The master was fading fast now and perhaps would not even see out the batde. His voice was brittle, every cough brought up fresh blood and his face was grey and terribly thin. He had not eaten in two days and even a sip of water was taken with the knowledge of certain pain. But still he clung on and those eyes reflected the pin-sharp mind inside his failing body.

'But they cast the PressureBell?' he asked, Dystran having to lean in close to hear the grinding whisper.

'Yes, it was cast. We monitored it from here,' said Dystran. 'But we do not know its effectiveness. It is apparent that not enough survived with energy enough to link a Communion with me.'

Ranyl nodded. 'Best assume they are all dead, young pup.'

'And we'd better pray the allies were destroyed. We suffered heavy losses yesterday. But the walls and gates are weak and the Julatsans cannot cast, or so it would seem. We can break through today. We must.'

Dystran looked out through Ranyl's balcony doors. Another fine day was dawning, the wispy clouds already burning off. A good day for triumph.

'We are so close,' said Ranyl, a tear of pain squeezing from his eye, the cough spraying blood on to the cloth he held to his mouth. ‘Imay yet live to see it.'

'You will, old dog, you will,' said Dystran, starting to believe it himself if the battle could be won today.

There was a tentative knock on the door.

'This had better be important,' muttered Dystran. He stood and strode to the door, snatching it open to reveal Suarav standing there. The guard captain looked anxious. 'Yes?'

‘Iam sorry my Lord but you must come to the walls of the city.'

'Any particular reason?' asked Dystran. 'An odd cloud formation perhaps or may be a herd of deer galloping across the battlefields of yesterday.' He dropped his voice to a clipped whisper. 'Can't you see I'm with a dying man?'

Suarav dropped his voice too, and spoke so low that Dystran had difficulty in hearing. He caught one word though, or thought he did and prayed he was mistaken.

‘Ibeg your pardon?' he said.

The Wesmen songs had reached a new crescendo when they had reached the eastern side of Understone Pass. Their pace had increased, as had their belief in victory. Understone itself lay in ruins, the stench of death reaching them hundreds of yards distant, as did the calls of the flocks of carrion birds, fighting over putrefied flesh.

There really had been no one left to fight them, just as his scouts had reported. So the four thousand warriors, led at a rhythmic trot by Tessaya, Lord of the Paleon Tribes and ruler of the Wesmen, picked up their voices and drove themselves north to glory.

Tessaya felt the energy through every muscle as he ran. He sang too, his bass voice adding to the throng of sound that delighted his ears and would terrify all who heard it. The Wesmen were back on eastern Balaian soil and this time, they were here to stay, he could feel it.

They had camped for a glorious, dancing- and fire-filled night only six miles from the walls of Xetesk, their Destranas howling and hunting, the Shamen conferring the strength of the Spirits on everyone there assembled. No one fought, no tribe sought to gain advantage. Here was unification, here was an army that would be unstoppable.

Before dawn they had risen, their few hours' sleep enough, their vigour undiminished. They had heard Tessaya's words and then they had run again, faster than before, desperate that the head of every rise should show them a view of their goal.