pouring into the assault now Tessaya had joined. Those in the fight knew they would not fail.

'Keep close to the rungs,' ordered Tessaya. 'Don't give them a target.'

A shame not all of his men heeded that advice. Arrows were still streaming by. One thudded home into the exposed neck of a warrior who risked looking up to see how far he had to go. Screaming, he plunged past Tessaya and bounced dead on the ground below.

'Keep moving!' he shouted.

There was a man right above him. Tessaya unashamedly used him as a shield. He noted how far he had climbed by the closeness of the wall behind the ladder. Not far now.

Another spell flashed across the night sky. To his left, ice howled into flesh and wood, expanding into cracks and splitting bindings and rungs. The ladder shattered, spilling survivors onto the long drop to death. Tessaya cursed. But the roar was intensifying above him and he heard the first glorious sounds of metal on metal, his warriors finally face to face with the Xeteskian defenders. A smile cracked across his face.

'Still with me, Riasu?' he called.

'I am, my Lord,' came the slightly breathless reply. 'I can smell their fear.'

'Then let's not delay you seeing it in their eyes,' said Tessaya. 'Push!'

Now Tessaya looked up. He was only ten or so feet from the battlements. The arrows had stopped now. His men were climbing faster and he along with them, desperate to reach the walls before the small bridgehead was closed. One body fell to his right. Sparks flew as weapons collided and the songs of the Wesmen grew still louder, instilling in them all the desire to fight harder. For the tribes, for themselves, and for all those who had died to bring them to this place.

Those above him were still moving too slowly for his liking. Holding his axe outside the right-hand edge of the ladder, he shifted as far as he dared to that side and began to shout warriors from his path.

'Left, go left. Let me through. Go, go!'

He could sense Riasu right in his tracks. Using his left hand to steady himself, Tessaya surged up the rungs, using the ladder's angle against the wall to give him momentum. The breach was still

holding. His men were breasting the walls scant feet from him. He could smell the stone, cold and ancient.

The sounds of the fighting came slightly muted to him. The individual batdes. Grunts of exertion, cries of pain and shock. The thud and clash of weapon on leather and chain. The squeal of blades thrust together. The drop of bodies on stone and the scrabbling of feet desperate for purchase and balance.

Right at the head of the ladder, the reason for the slow progress above became clear. One warrior clung fast to the top rung. He had been sick over his hands and his weapon was still sheathed. Tessaya paused by him, swallowing his disgust at the cowardice when he saw the warrior's age.

'Stand with me, boy,' he said. 'Live or die you will know glory.'

The boy gave him a terrified look but nodded minutely.

'Good lad.'

Tessaya grabbed his collar and hauled him up the final step. In the next pace, they were on the walls and surrounding them was bedlam. Even Tessaya found the surge in volume of noise and the closeness of the action hard to take in. His charge wobbled at the knees. Urine poured down the boy's leggings and he vomited again. But in the midst of it all, he drew his blade, a short stabbing sword.

In die light cast by torches and braziers, the small breach was under concerted attack. Three other breaches could be seen left and right. Xeteskians were running in from the right and were packed left but coming under pressure from Wesmen on bodi sides. The parapet was no more than five feet wide, was unfenced and had never been built to defend in this fashion. Tessaya saw the game at once.

'Push out!' he yelled and jumped from the wall onto the bodies of the dead and into the backs of the living, shoving hard.

The Wesmen in Tessaya's way were forced off balance, able only to try and brace themselves against their, enemies. In front of them, the reflex backward pace was fatal. With nowhere to go, the three Xeteskians nearest the edge stepped out into nowhere, grabbed at those nearest and at least half a dozen fell into the city far below. One of his warriors went with them. Two others saved themselves.

'Keep the breach open,' he ordered. 'Fight, my tribes, fight. Hold

right, push left. Let's isolate those bastards. Someone get these bodies over the edges.'

They obeyed. Tessaya was with them and they would do anything he asked of them. He looked back to see where the boy was and saw him fighting and killing; terror replaced by the desire to live. He would not.

Riasu breasted the battlement and howled a battle cry, circling his axe above his head.

'Riasu, pass the message back down the ladders. I want clear wall between the two nearest gatehouses. Do it!'

Without waiting, Tessaya plunged into the fight. His axe carved down between two of his warriors, splitting the skull of an enemy. Blood fountained into the torchlit night. The first Xeteskian blood he had spilt in years. He drew back his axe to move into the space his warriors left him.

Before he focused on his next victim, he stared out over the city of Xetesk. The towers of the college stood stark against the sky, light blazing from every window and wall.

'I am coming,' he growled. T will cast you down.'

'Get back to the walls!' ordered Dystran, Lord of the Mount of Xetesk. 'Wesmen are standing on them. I look at my senior commander and do I really have to wonder why?'

Dystran had intercepted Commander Chandyr in the dome of the college tower complex having seen his most decorated soldier thundering through the streets on his horse. The otherwise empty dome echoed to raised voices. Chandyr's battle-scarred face was pale and angry. Dystran knew exactly how he felt.

'No, my Lord,' said Chandyr. 'You have withdrawn too many mages to the college. Give them back.'

'I will not exhaust every mage I have.'

'Then do not expect me to hold the walls much longer.'

'Ever the poor soldier blames lack of resource and support.'

Chandyr's eyes narrowed. 'Three thousand men against a few hundred, and many of those only just returned exhausted by forced march from Julatsa. What would you have me do, Lord Dystran?'

'I would have you do your job.'

'I am doing it,' said Chandyr quietly. 'I am before you trying to prevent a massacre.'

'Then how is it Wesmen have scaled my walls?'

Chandyr snapped. Dystran saw the shadow cross his eyes and felt the sharp prod of the commander's gauntleted finger in his ribs.

'Xetesk's walls, not yours,' he said, menace in his tone. 'And they are there because the defence to keep them away was taken from me by you at dusk. You have a responsibility "to this city which you are shirking. What use is the college if the city is burning around it, eh?'

Dystran did not speak for a moment, allowing Chandyr to lower his hand.

'The college is the city,' he said. 'And as ruler of the college, all the walls are mine. I shirk nothing, Chandyr. Indeed I should be applauded for taking mages from the slaughter over which you are presiding. They at least will be able to strike back.'

'Another of your indiscriminate dimensional spells, Dystran?' Chandyr scoffed. 'You will kill more innocents than enemies.'

T will stop the Wesmen,' said Dystran, feeling his patience expire. 'And you, Commander Chandyr, will remember to whom you are speaking and, if you take my advice, will choose your next words very, very carefully.'

A half-smile flickered across Chandyr's mouth. It didn't touch his eyes. He nodded and took a pace forwards, coming so close Dystran could barely focus on him.

'Never accuse me of being a poor soldier again.'