'Sheth, we have to trip that ward!' he shouted, all thought of stealth gone.

'I'll deal with it,' said the mage, her voice thick with anger.

She dropped to her knees and began to cast, her fingers weaving intricate patterns in the air, her eyes closed against the fire that consumed the corpses of her friends. Beside her, Skiriin's bow thrummed and another stranger died. Rebraal unclipped his jaqrui pouch and grasped one of the throwing crescents, sending it skimming head-high into the half-dozen strangers coming at them, not thirty yards away. It caught one on the side of the neck, slicing deep. The man cried out, dropped his weapon and clutched at the wound which jetted his life's blood to the earth.

Rebraal drew his sword. In the same instant Sheth'erei cast with devastating effect. Standing to give herself a clear view of the group by the temple doors, she pushed her hands outwards, palms up. The ForceCone spread away, invisible, a battering ram of mana crashing into the front rank of shield-bearers who, completely unprepared, were hurled backwards into their comrades. The Cone pushed on, and while some scrambled clear of its influence, others were driven back, helpless, tossed head over heels. The result was inevitable. One of them fell into the temple doors.

The flash seared into Rebraal's eyes and he half turned away. The detonation shook the ground under his feet and the branches of the great banyans overhead. The temple doors exploded and a beam of fire scoured outwards like the breath of a great dragon, deluging everything in its path with super-heated flame. It reached halfway down the apron and the wall of air following it knocked the surviving Al-Arynaar from their feet.

Rebraal was bowled over but stopped himself quickly and drove back onto his feet, his bow snapped and useless. Nearby, Skiriin was up and had drawn his own slender blade. Sheth'erei was still down but moving, and from the other surviving platform Rourke and Dereneer were running to join them.

'Let's finish this,' said Rebraal.

He broke into a sprint, the three other swordsmen hard on his heels, forcing himself not to stop when he caught sight of the apron. The ward had wreaked appalling damage. Fires licked at stone where they had set undergrowth alight, bodies and parts of bodies, scorched and burning, lay scattered and twisted, and where a stranger had survived, he begged for death.

Of the group by the door, two were conscious and coming at them. One fired a crossbow, the bolt whipping by Rebraal to bury itself in Dereneer's stomach. The elf sprawled to the ground, sword skittering away. Rebraal leaped a fire and slashed his blade into the crossbowman's arm. The stranger dropped his weapon and staggered back and had no defence against the next strike, which tore across his throat.

Rebraal turned to see Rourke and Skiriin kill the other but behind them, away towards the path, more figures moved. Many more.

'Oh dear Yniss, save us,' he said. 'Sheth'erei, behind you!'

But the groggy mage couldn't react in time. Half turning in her crouched position she took a sword point through the neck, her scream turning to a gurgle before it and she died.

'No!' Rebraal ran at the enemy, sword raised in one hand, his other seeking a jaqrui. It howled across the closing space, bouncing harmlessly off a metal shoulder guard. A second followed it, this one whispering its danger, connecting with the sword hand of the same man, slicing through his thumb.

But still they came from the forest path. Ten, twenty and maybe more. Rebraal, Skiriin and Rourke took the fight to them, the elves' ferocity keeping them back from the apron and tight to the trees where they couldn't spread out. Rourke dragged his blade through the stomach of one man but the next was quick, jabbing into the elf's chest, and blood welled from the wound. Skiriin backed up, defending furiously, blade licking out at great speed, slashing and nicking. He downed one man with a rip across the neck but it couldn't go on for ever. There were too many of them and a blade split his skull.

Rebraal pressed an attack and prayed to Yniss for forgiveness and to Shorth for vengeance. He opened up the defence of his opponent and raised his sword to strike…

But his strike never came. He felt a violent impact in his left shoulder like someone had hit him in the back with a hammer. The pain was excruciating and he pitched forward, the dreadful orange glare of the fires greying to black.

Baron Blackthorne was holding the latest report on the state of his lands handed to him by a trusted aide. He'd ushered the young man to a seat opposite him while he cast his eye down the summary sheet. It was a mild spring evening outside, though in the cool drawing room at Blackthorne Castle a fire roared in the grate between the fifty-one-year-old baron and his aide.

'Have a glass of wine, Luke,' he said, indicating the decanter of young Blackthorne red on the table in front of him. 'It's ageing well. We'll get a good price for it in a couple of years.'

'Thank you, my Lord,' said Luke.

He reached forward and grabbed the decanter, topping up Blackthorne's glass before filling his own. Blackthorne watched Luke sit back down on the hard armchair and a smile crossed his lips. The transformation in Luke had been remarkable. Blackthorne had encountered him first in the midst of the Wesmen wars as a scared sixteen-year-old who had lost all his family. He'd been struck then with the youth's pragmatism and straight talking and had made good on a promise to develop him. Luke's farming days were behind him but his experience on the land and his remarkable head for figures and organisation had made him absolutely indispensable.

Blackthorne was used to making people nervous. He was aware of his stature and the stern air lent him by his black hair, beard and hard angular face, and he exploited his advantages. Luke, though, had no fears and was one of the few who would challenge him. Blackthorne respected and admired him for it.

He took a sip of wine and looked down the page. 'Am I going to like this?' he asked.

'Yes, Baron,' said Luke. 'Very much. Mostly.'

'Quick precis then,' he said. 'I'll read the detail later.'

Luke ordered his analytical mind before speaking. Blackthorne relaxed into his chair to listen, a finger idly scratching at his beard, which contained an irritating amount of grey these days. But then it had been a hard winter, even in Blackthorne.

'Grain supplies are holding up well and will see us through to first harvest at current population levels. We're still monitoring two bakeries for possible black market sell-on but the others are clear. The scurvy outbreak has been contained. The mages are confident of no further spread and our shipment of oranges began to offload in the bay yesterday.

'We've taken in two hundred more refugees, all families with children, and have now closed the town to more. Out in the fields, the planting is almost complete and spring crops should be ready for harvest in ten days or so. That'll help vegetable supplies. By your order, mounted militia are patrolling the ripening fields, but since the first theft we've had no trouble and the refugee areas are being closely watched.

'Livestock isn't so good, though it's not awful. The dairy herds are fine but we saw a marked depletion in breeding stock during the last two seasons, as you know. New calves, piglets and lambs are all down by up to seventy per cent. You'll see I've made a recommendation in the report that we sell on all excess at the premium it'll command and use the money to buy whatever surplus breeding stock we can find and start aggressively rebuilding our herds. If we play it right, we can establish a very strong market position when this thing blows over.'