He felt no pain and no regret. There was no fanfare within to mark his passing. He had no idea what to expect but the memories of words spoken by returning souls. He could see nothing and he did not feel as if he was moving. No sensations touched him and the fact of his solitude did not scare him.

Here was the place between life and death. He knew his soul had left his body, that all he was now was a soul. Slowly, his new awareness and senses, if he could call them that, brought him knowledge of his surroundings. Luminescence, like light seen through closed eyelids. Sound. A rushing, scourging noise, distant and contained. The void, he assumed.

He moved towards the luminescence. It was the only thing in his new reality. Anywhere else he cast his senses, there was nothing at all. He needed to know more. The closer he came, the greater his understanding. Here was a doorway. That meant he was floating in the chamber in the catacombs. The doorway was open. Through it, he could distinctly sense a pathway. That meant his death had indeed completed the spell.

He reached out further. Energy encased the door. Strands of it, keeping it steady while the void beating around outside it fought to snap it shut. He could sense the void more definitely now. A seething ocean of random energies revealed as flecks of yellow-gold and deep bronze in a sea of pale grey.

It was the flecks that added light to the passageway. They shone through its walls. Walls that were not solid, and if he had still possessed a body it would have been like walking on taut canvas. He came to the doorway and reached out.

For the first time he felt fear but it was ephemeral. A sudden clash of light and sound had startled him and he had no reference point for safety. But his act of reaching had triggered something. The pathway fled off to a point he could not make out. The chaotic sounds of the void became muted. And he heard voices. More shockingly, he could see his own hand and he stared down at the shapes it made as he trailed it in front of what he assumed were his eyes, or the soul’s equivalent.

‘Yes, yes, we all did that. Making blurry motions with our shiny new limbs.’

Sol - he thought of himself as Sol again - turned in the doorway. Shapes were approaching. Like silhouettes formed of a grey light. Slowly, they resolved themselves as they walked towards him. But even if he didn’t recognise their shapes yet, he knew the voice.

‘Hirad?’

‘Yes. Me. Us. Ilkar, Sirendor, Thraun. And a few others who might come in handy although I don’t really know how fighting is done here.’

‘Where are we?’ asked Sol. ‘Why do you appear to be walking? I thought souls had no physical form.’

‘Interesting, isn’t it? I think we’re still technically on Balaia at the moment, by the way.’ Ilkar. ‘It happened the first time I died too. I think the mind can’t stop working the way it does when you’re alive. Not for a while, anyway. When I got to my rest, this body stuff all faded away and everything changed to bliss.’

‘Same here,’ said Sirendor.

‘What now?’ asked Sol.

‘You opened the door and you must be the first through it. Then others can follow.’ Thraun.

‘And it leads to Ulandeneth?’

‘We’d better bloody hope so,’ said Hirad. ‘Or Diera is going to be seriously unimpressed with your sacrifice.’

‘That is where it leads, though the pathway is dangerous.’

Another new voice. Other figures were approaching but a little distant yet.

‘Then we should go,’ said Sol.

He moved inside the pathway. All at once he heard a sigh as of a thousand voices finding comfort together.

‘What was that?’ he asked.

‘You will see,’ said the new voice. One he recognised but could not place. ‘But we must go. The enemy will be aware of this corridor. ’

Sol shrugged. Or he thought he did.

‘No time like the present.’

‘Raven,’ said Hirad. ‘Raven, with me.’

‘Hold it!’ roared Suarav and Chandyr. ‘Hold it. You can do it.’

Tower Prexys had fallen. Tower Laryon had fallen and there was little they could do to shore up Tower Nyer now. Suarav was damned if any more would tumble. The five machines continued hovering above them. The new weapons continued to fire. The detonation clouds continued to build and burst. The machines continued to grow.

But now Xetesk was fighting back again. Beneath a cooperative Ilkar’s Defence casting, thirty mages kept the weapons away from the tower complex. Another six were in reserve and supported a second shield above the working team. Twenty-five guards stood on the perimeter. The machines had fired again and again, each time leaching more strength from the casters. Even so, precious time was being bought and it was hoped fervently that people were escaping into the wild. Garonin were advancing on all sides. Perhaps because they had caught all who had tried to run. Perhaps because they had failed to do so and had been called back for the main prize.

‘Clear!’ shouted the lead mage, an elderly man named Gythar. ‘And steady.’

‘Great work, people,’ said Chandyr. ‘Machine four is building. Be ready.’

‘Guards, look to your fronts. Enemies closing on foot,’ said Suarav. ‘Mage reserve, we need shields on the ground and facing out. Let’s keep the dome wall at our backs.’

Inside the shattered complex more mages worked on binding what was left of the circle of seven towers and the superstructure of the dome. Suarav did not think the enemy had seen them move in.

‘Come on and have a go,’ muttered Suarav. ‘I’m sick of using my sword as a pointer.’

Forty or fifty were advancing carefully from across the width of the courtyard. It was littered with bodies and rubble. Their weapons were trained on the small knot of defenders but they had yet to open fire. From behind Suarav, he heard confirmation of shields dropping into place in front of them.

‘What are they waiting for?’ asked Chandyr at his side.

Suarav shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Think we’ve scared them?’

‘Well, if it helps, I think we’ve worried them enough for them to want to wipe us out to the last man.’

‘Ever the voice of comfort, though I happen to agree.’

‘They fear the Cleansing Flame,’ said Gythar. ‘They’ve countered most offensive spells. Not that one.’

‘Then we should use it,’ said Chandyr.

‘No. They will sense the lessening of our shield cover.’

‘Gythar’s right,’ said Suarav. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world. It is they who are in a rush, it would seem.’

The enemy soldiers loped on, their big strides eating up the distance. At thirty yards, each slung his weapon back over his shoulder and drew what looked like a short sword though with an extremely thin blade. White light seemed to play up and down their edges.

‘Well, well, what have we here?’ muttered Chandyr.

‘They mean to take us on hand to hand. Inside the shield.’ Suarav raised his voice. ‘Not one of those bastards gets past our sword line. Protect the mages. Look to your flanks. They are playing in our world now.’

At twenty yards the Garonin broke into a run, taking Suarav by complete surprise. It was not just that this was the first time they had seen any Garonin do anything other than walk, they were fast too. Very fast.

‘Brace yourselves!’ called Suarav and he set his sword to ready, holding it out front and in both hands. ‘Blunt the charge.’

The Garonin loomed tall and powerful. The drum of their feet sent shivers through the ground and up through his body. He took his own orders and braced his feet as best he could. The Garonin soldiers struck.