“Over there.” Ryshad nodded to a sturdy double door as we found ourselves in a lofty entrance hall.

Shiv raised a hand and the wood darkened, swelled and ruptured. The metal bands and hasps rusted before our very eyes.

“Come on.”

’Gren brought up his distinctly non-magical boot to kick at it. The rotten wood sagged from splitting hinges now just metal flakes held together by corrosion. I ripped at the wood and we hammered out a hole big enough for Ryshad and Shiv.

“What’s out there?” Sorgrad was barely visible as Shiv filled the entrance hall with roiling shadows to baffle our pursuers hesitant on the fringes of the unknown darkness.

I squinted cautiously through the splintered gap. “Courtyard and the main gate which looks very much locked. Some troops and it’s a safe bet more are on their way”

“How much more have you got in you?” Ryshad looked sharply at the mage.

“Enough,” the wizard assured us. The illusions concealed him as thoroughly as ever but we all heard the weary note in Shiv’s voice. “Sorgrad can try a few of the tricks Larissa taught him, if he likes.”

“No holds barred?” I’ve never seen Sorgrad at a loss in all the years I’d known him and I was relieved beyond measure to see this was no exception.

“That’s battlefield rules, according to Halice.” I glanced at Ryshad.

“It may not be a usual kind of war but they started it.” He shrugged. “ ’Gren, help me with this.”

The brothers swapped places by the chest and Sorgrad stepped up to the breach in the door. He clapped his hands together and a sheet of flame sprang up, spreading to encircle us all. The damp chunks of broken wood hissed and steamed and the firelight played eerily among the shadows that Shiv was still keeping as black and impenetrable as ever.

“Let’s get out of here while they’re all still gawping,” I suggested. If Ilkehan’s people could barely see us, we could barely see them and that made me nervous.

“Slowly, concentrate.” Shiv’s calm voice encouraged Sorgrad and we began walking towards the main gate. Slingshot whizzed into the flames where the stones shattered into razor-sharp, red-hot fragments. I swallowed an un-Eldritch yelp as one stung me on the face.

“What about the gate?” asked Ryshad tightly.

“Just get ready to run,” Sorgrad replied through clenched teeth.

The flames disappeared and the shadows shrivelled. All that protected us were our tawdry disguises and the terrified imaginations of the onlookers. The gate exploded into a ball of fire before anyone could see through our masquerade, shards of burning wood and blistering metal shooting in all directions. People ran for cover, screams from the slowest. The fell rain would have seared us too but for a sandstorm that reared up from the dusty earth to envelop us, sucking the lethal fragments into the maelstrom. We stood in the calm centre of the silently howling winds, a wall of dust and debris concealing us from all the hostile eyes.

I’d kept my bearings, thanks to so many years making my way without benefit of a light to alert a nosy watchman or some indignant householder. “Forward.” I pointed and we moved, the storm cloaking us.

“Faster,” Sorgrad hissed.

We ran, Ryshad and ’Gren grunting as they lugged the weighty chest between them. Shiv was puffing like a man who’d been on the battlefield all day and even Sorgrad’s steps looked leaden as I watched for the changes underfoot that would mean we were through the gate.

“Where do we hide up?” I demanded as soon as we were beyond the wall.

“The hargeard.” Sorgrad looked around, frowning at the constantly shifting veil of wind and dust.

“That way.” I pointed.

“Is there anywhere to hide there?” Ryshad looked at Shiv with concern. “We can’t rely on Gebaedim superstitions to stop them stringing us up if they get their hands on us.”

I shivered. A quick hanging would be the most merciful fate we could hope for.

“Trust me.” Sorgrad’s eyes were bright blue against the black that rimmed them.

My fears receded to a manageable level; after all, he’d never let me down before.

From Keran Tonin, Mentor,

To Pirip Marne, Scholar.

Dear Marne,

I hear you’re doing some interesting work on the Ancient Races. You might find this useful. I can vouch for it as a genuine copy of an old record; it came from the Isles of the Elietimm a few years ago, when the Archmage’s man and those two sworn to D’Olbriot tried to rescue poor Geris. I’d so far rather have had the dear boy home safe instead but at least we’re unravelling some notion of what we’re dealing with from documents like this.

By the way, have you considered a visit to Kellarin at all? Let me know your thoughts in due course.

With compliments, Tonin

Itilek tells he has heard of disaster befalling Kehannasekke’s bid for the empty lands to the south.

Jinvejen agrees that he has heard the same. The feeling among his clan is that this is Misaen’s judgement upon Rekhren for his over-reliance upon Maewehn’s priests.

Itilek announces his own priest finds himself powerless.

Jinvejen admits his own councillor is similarly stricken.

Both take time to consider this puzzle.

Jinvejen declares his forefathers have counselled suspicion of Maewehn’s priests ever since all in this common exile were driven from our true home by Sheltya malice.

Itilek allows such a sudden and unexpected loss of priestly powers looks like divine retribution but asks what might Misaen’s purpose be in doing such a thing?

Jinvejen wonders what does Misaen ask of us all in less troubled times? That we strive to better our lot through hard work and unity of purpose. It was for fear of such uncompromising strength that Sheltya rallied the weaker clans to hound our forefathers from their home. It was only such determination that brought our forefathers across the ice to these isolated rocks. Perhaps Misaen has visited his judgement upon Kehannasekke to rebuke him for seeking a new home to the south rather than returning to reclaim his true inheritance through ingenuity and valour.

Itilek points out how many generations have passed since our forefathers were exiled. Hopes of return to our true home seem ever more distant now the descendants of those that exiled us find themselves assailed by Southrons driven out of their own lands by the men of Tren Ar’Dryen.

Jinvejen reminds Itilek that Southrons are ruled by priests devoted both to Maewehn and to Arimelin and have long counselled retreat rather than making a stand for their sacred places. Cowardice has sewn the seeds of its own destruction.

Itilek asks what Jinvejen proposes.

Jinvejen suggests all ties with Southrons be cut and we tend our own hearths in amity for a full cycle of years. Misaen has shown us plainly that we have no friends but our own blood kindred. Kehannasekke’s misadventures prove all other arms will be raised against us. Let us hone our skills and bide our time, raising our sons to strength and singleness of mind. If we prove ourselves worthy, mayhap Misaen will add the edge of true magic to our hard-hitting swords once more.

Itilek agrees to consider this and undertakes to lay the hide with his hargeard that the bones might make their wishes known to him.