The Raven punched a hole clear through to open ground. Darrick fended off more blows, his rake splintering in his hands. The Unknown dragged his blade through the thigh of the mage rider and Thraun nicked another on the way past but they weren't finished. Denser rotated in his saddle, ForceCone cast with a single word. Without a SpellShield the surviving enemy were defenceless. The Cone slapped into the backs of them, catapulting riders from saddles, fracturing bones in men and horses.

'No!' shouted Darrick. 'Too early.'

He pulled up and turned.

'Wrong,' said Hirad, seeing the faltering gallop of the second group. 'That was cavalry, this is Raven. Kill but never murder.'

'Form up!' called The Unknown. 'Darrick my left.'

They trotted into a single line abreast, still under Erienne's shield. Loose horses milled in confusion, the injured limped or lay, their cries echoing mournfully from the ridge. Dead and wounded mercenaries were scattered over an area of twenty yards and Denser kept a weather eye out for mindless acts of bravery. Ahead of them, the centre rider of the group raised a hand. His five colleagues reined into little above a trot.

'Shouldn't go attacking The Raven, Tolmek,' said The Unknown, commanding voice crossing the twenty yard divide. 'And you can have the same but it is not what we want.'

'There's a high price on your heads, Unknown,' replied Tolmek. 'And those are my men you've killed and wounded.'

The mercenary leader had modelled himself and his team on The Raven. He was an experienced fighter, scarred from battle, his sharp blue eyes bright beneath a fluted helmet which crushed his untidy black hair to his head. If The Raven admitted to respecting any others in their trade, he'd be high on the list. Right now, though, he was a potential enemy. He understood that.

'We have the right to defend ourselves.'

‘Ihave the right to try and fulfil open contracts,' replied Tolmek.

'I'm sure,' said The Unknown. 'Yet we're all fighting on the same side. You want Balaia saved, you turn and ride away.'

'What I want is money enough to retire before I'm too weak to hold my sword.'

'Then fight with Xetesk. They'll pay you more,' said Hirad.

‘Ithink you know me better than that, Coldheart.'

He nudged his horse on ahead of his men, closed until The Unknown's mount nuzzled his and spoke quietly.

'Everyone is looking for you,' he said. 'I can understand Lystern's anger but there's more, I know it. Dordover is way too keen to see you taken. All of you alive, not dead. What's going on?'

'Time you were leaving,' said The Unknown. 'You don't want to force us to fight you.'

Tolmek half smiled. 'Tempting though it is to try and earn the reward… maybe another time.'

'We won't strike first against you,' said The Unknown. 'But force our hand and we won't hesitate.' He gestured to the mess surrounding them. 'See to your wounded then go.'

Tolmek nodded. 'Be lucky, Raven. I-' He paused and frowned. 'Where's Ilkar?'

Hirad's heart dropped at the sound of his name. 'He's dead, Tolmek. Elfsorrow took him. Xetesk is to blame.'

Tolmek raised his eyebrows and began to turn his horse. 'I'm sorry to hear that. And perhaps I can make Xetesk sorry too.'

'Just leave us alone, don't follow us,' said The Unknown. 'Tell the trade. Don't try to stop us. It isn't worth it.'

The Raven moved to let Tolmek take his surviving men to their fallen.

‘Iwonder how big the reward is,' said Hirad, The Raven gathering to leave.

'Huge, I would hope,' said The Unknown.

'I'd be insulted by a small one,' agreed Hirad.

'So why didn't you ask?' Darrick, like all of them, was dismounting.

'Best not to know,' said Hirad. 'After all, however big, it could always be bigger.' He put an arm round the general's shoulder. 'Now, while Tolmek is sorting out the mess you organised, why don't you see if there's anything round here you like. It's your right, after all and besides, that rake of yours has seen better days and I think we should avoid bloodying your uniform any further.'

Chapter 9

'All right, what have we got?' asked Dystran, once seated around the dining table with his elven archivists and dimensional research teams. Ranyl was on his way, apparently. But it would, as with anything in these last painful days, take him some considerable time.

To Dystran's left, an old master dimensional mage was about to begin when Dystran held up his hand for further silence.

'I realise my last question may have given you the impression that I am merely after a quick update on our current state of research. Let me disabuse you of that particular notion.

'In case it has escaped your attention, we are at war. There are thousands of souls beyond our gates whose express intention it is to nail me to the walls of my Tower. Probably upside down. We may have won a recent victory but the tide is still against us. Our people live in fear of invasion. Hundreds clamour every day to leave.

'In this war, either Xetesk triumphs or we become a husk, never to reclaim our rightful position. Now, in order for the former and not the latter to be our fate – and let me assure you, if it is the latter you will all experience your fates before I do – there are certain things we must do, and do right. For that, I require your individed attention and assistance.'

He paused and looked around the table. Eight men between the ages of thirty and eighty had lost their appetites for the vegetable stew and bread before them. Wine and water settled in glasses.

'So let's start with the easy one. Was it the One magic cast in Lystern last night?'

'Yes.' Kestys, that was his name. Dystran had never been good at remembering names. But he remembered faces all right. And this man's, unremarkable and slightly reddened as it was, was utterly familiar.

'And the caster?'

'That we have not yet ascertained.' Kestys looked for help to either side of him. It did not come.

'I see.' Dystran sucked in a breath slowly and carefully. 'Stop me if I make a mistake here. We still have Protectors on Herendeneth, meaning we have muscle and we have the means to communicate ' between there and here, correct? Yes. And you have presumably requested that the Al-Drechar be questioned about the identity of our mysterious practitioner?'

'Of course, my Lord,' said Kestys, shifting in his seat, a light sweat on his brow. 'But they have not been forthcoming.'

Dystran pushed his hands through his hair. 'On that island, our people face one dragon with no fire, one woman and a baby, half a dozen servant elves and two old mages. How is it they have been allowed to be "not forthcoming".'

'The Al-Drechar retain considerable power.'

Dystran smiled thinly. 'They do. They are also very, very old, and dying. They spent themselves trying to protect the Nightchild from her own power and they have never fully recovered. Two of them died. Pressure them further. And if they resist, threaten someone else. The baby, for instance… any latent talent there that could scare five Xeteskian mages? I think you understand me.'

'My Lord.'

A door opened behind him. Dystran turned to see Ranyl shuffle in. The cancer-ravaged mage was leaning heavily on two sticks but still refusing the aid of the mages trying to cluster around him. The room focused on him while he dragged himself to his chair next to Dystran and sat down, propping the sticks against the table. His face displayed his pain, his eyes his undimmed determination.

The Lord of the Mount poured him a glass of chilled water. Ranyl drank deeply.

'Thank you, my Lord.'

'Any time,' said Dystran. 'We will continue if you are ready.'

Ranyl smiled. 'Make no allowances, my Lord. I am here, therefore I am capable.'