Darrick smiled. 'Well, that's why I'm here, talking to you now.'

'Good,' said The Unknown. 'Then I suggest we leave you two to it. We're going in tomorrow night so work to that timescale. I'm sure Auum will agree we should wait no longer. Meanwhile…' He stood up, his eyes on Thraun who had remained completely still, staring into the shadows beyond the fire. 'Thraun, come and talk to me. I want to know what's wrong.'

The shapechanger fixed him with a sullen look.

'Now.' The Unknown's tone brooked no dissension.

Hirad watched The Unknown put an arm round Thraun's tense shoulders and firmly but gently guide him from the fire. Deciding to get himself some soup, Hirad brushed himself down and ambled over to the cook pots. He caught Denser's troubled gaze.

'How bad?' he asked, stirring the thick broth. 'Want some of this?'

Denser shook his head. 'Very bad. Very bad indeed.'

'How long have we got?'

Denser half shrugged and glanced at Rebraal who was translating for Dila'heth.

'That's the problem,' he said. 'We can't know. They've had one instance of mana-flow failure and the focus around the Heart isn't complete. They say it's like a shadow, leaching colour from the Julatsan mana spectrum. One day, soon probably, that shadow will deepen enough to stop the Heart beating and even now it's spreading out, weakening every casting they make. Put it this way, the longer we delay, the harder it will be to reverse. It's terrifying.'

'Is it?'

'Yes, Hirad, it is. To a mage, losing contact with the mana spectrum is the worst tiling that could possibly happen. It would be like a living death. Like living in a Cold Room the rest of your life. How can I make you understand? I don't know… for you the closest thing would be like losing the use of your sword arm. It would be hanging there, you'd know it was there but you just couldn't use it. Send you mad, wouldn't it?'

Hirad nodded. 'Well, let's not spend too much time in Xetesk, eh?'

'I'm with you there.'

The Unknown Warrior didn't take Thraun far. Just beyond the firelight and into the trees. He'd looked anxious; perhaps the woodland, such as it was, would calm him.

'Thraun?' The Unknown stopped and turned the shapechanger to face him. 'What's bothering you? Even for you, this is quiet and withdrawn. We need you with us all the way inside Xetesk. It's going to be tough in there.'

'We can touch our enemies,' said Thraun, leaving The Unknown momentarily at a loss.

'No, Thraun,' he replied. 'These aren't our enemies. They still want what we want but with regard to us they're misguided.'

'He will betray us,' said Thraun, nodding his head toward the camp.

Tzack? You've got that wrong. He's as loyal to Darrick as we are to each other. He's-'

Thraun gripped The Unknown's arm hard.

'He won't mean to,' he said, and The Unknown could see him struggling for the words that just refused to come. His green eyes, yellow-tinged, shone with moisture in the dim flicker of the fire to their right and his face was pinched, angry. He swallowed. 'He won't mean to, but he isn't Darrick.'

'What? Thraun, please. Try to explain what you mean.'

But the shapechanger was looking away towards Xetesk, sniffing the air, tasting its quality.

'I see what the wolf sees,' he said.

The Unknown started. It was the first direct allusion to Thraun's acceptance of his other self that he'd uttered in years. Somewhere inside his mind, another wall had fallen.

'You've lost me,' he said.

'The air is not good here,' Thraun continued, turning back to The Unknown. ‘Iwill fight with you. I am Raven. But wolves do not hunt where they will find no prey, only rotten meat. Do you see any other wolves here?'

Chapter 11

Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk, heard the distant roar of men and the impact of spells. He smelled the faint tang of smoke on the wind through his open windows and knew it was morning. But there was a different quality to it this morning. He dressed hurriedly, ignored the breakfast tray that had been left on his side dresser while he slept and headed down the stairs of his tower, which sat in the centre of a ring of six similar towers.

He snapped his fingers at his personal guards on the way to the stables and waited impatiently while their horses were pulled from stalls and saddled. He knew he could have asked for opinion but he didn't want it. Too much in this war was going on without him seeing it first-hand. At least the delay gave him time to issue a few orders, the only words he was going to utter until he stood on the ramparts above the east gate.

'Bring Chandyr to me at the gate. Bring him quickly. I don't care if he's lying in a pool of his own blood, I want to talk to him. Second, I want an assessment of Julatsa's strength in my briefing chambers when I come back and a man of substance to discuss it with me. Third, I want to know to the hour when we will have a dimensional alignment that will enable us to cast DimensionCon-nect or something similarly destructive.

'Now, clear me a path to the walls, I'm a busy man.'

One of his guards ran back towards the tower circle to pass on Dystran's instructions. Two others mounted up and led off at a gallop towards the east gate of the college and out into the streets. The remaining three rode around Dystran as he put heels to flanks and cantered away into his city.

He'd not ridden out for too long. It was so easy to feel that the war was going largely according to plan when safe in the cocoon of the college. When those gates closed, shutting out reality was simple, but in the streets, his people were not at ease. Businesses were dying, people were slowly but surely going hungry as his rationing measures bit harder. It was the middle of spring and at a time when the farms that supplied food to Xetesk should be green and yellow with burgeoning crops, most lay idle and overgrown or, worse, supplied his enemies.

Dystran needed his people to understand-that they'd come too far to turn back now, to surrender to the old order that would remove Xetesk's power. Remove him. He needed them behind him, believing in the greater glory of Xetesk. For the first days of the siege, support had been so solid. His attempts to engage every citizen in the effort, make them feel involved in a struggle for their survival, had appeared to work. From stretcher teams to water carriers, soup-kitchen cooks to weapon sharpeners, everyone had been designated a task. The sense of togetherness had been extraordinary.

How quickly that support was waning. Barely forty days into the battle and they were losing faith. The eyes turned to him were scared, angry or both. He could understand the fear. None of them was allowed to witness the fighting unless directed for support duty and that meant, for most, that all they had was what they could hear, and the rumours that came back day by day. Most were exaggerated, some verged on being lies. Yet there was little Dystran could realistically do. In the absence of obvious signs of victory, minds naturally turned the other way and doom was easier to share over a few drinks.

It had been such a hard path to walk. Trying to keep his people believing in him but not letting them know why they had to suffer the torment of war outside their walls. War they couldn't see but that could engulf them, should the tide turn against them.

How could Dystran tell them that all they had to do was wait a few more days? If he did, his enemies would know too and that he could not afford.

'Just hold on,' he whispered as he passed faces turned to him in desperation. 'Just hold on.'

He rode through the military positions behind the east gates, positions mirrored at all four portals into the city. Waved through guard posts and directed down cleared channels, he made towards the great closed gate itself. Seventy feet high, iron-bound doors in frames of stone, sweeping a hundred and more feet into the sky to meet at the apex of the grand east gate tower. The spired tower boasted three ornate arches from which his generals would be directing the battle half a mile away on open ground, safe above multiple oil runs and reinforced ramparts.