The Shamen destroyed the barrier they had created and Tessaya’s men stormed back into Understone Pass, running over, round and through the bodies of the defenders who had been trapped when the rocks came down.

Inside the pass, the devastation was startling. Men lay crushed beneath thousands of tons of stone, their catapults and heavy crossbows shattered and useless, defences beaten to splinters. For fifteen yards it was the same. The rockfalls must have claimed the lives of hundreds.

Darrick’s generals had retreated with any survivors, their next best defensive position being Understone itself and the sturdier structures, the building of which Darrick had overseen before his ride into the Wesmen lands. Crossbow towers, catapult emplacements, spiked stockades and camouflaged archer positions. None of it would stand up to the magic of the Shamen, but this time the defenders would be far more numerous.

The men of the east had only held the pass for three days, and now tens of thousands of Wesmen were running through it. Pouring over its drying stone, the Wesmen boiled along the pass, a swarm threatening to devour the east, its cities and its people. A howling mass of triumphant warriors dreaming of the eastern sun on their faces and more eastern blood on their swords. And this time, with the Shaman magic backing their every move, there was no one in front of them with the power to stop them for long.

‘Shield up,’ said Ilkar as The Unknown continued to tap his blade on the stone of the tunnel, watching the Acolytes running towards them, red clothing flapping as they came. Some had weapons but not all, and those at the head of the chase gained hesitancy as they approached.

‘We need a fast start,’ said The Unknown. ‘If we don’t scare them quickly, they’ll overwhelm us. Erienne, I need a hard shield in case they bring up archers.’

‘I hear you.’

‘Jandyr, fall back,’ ordered The Unknown.

‘I’m not moving.’

‘Jandyr.’

‘Save it, Unknown.’

The first Acolytes ran into the tunnel. The Unknown ceased his tapping and battle was joined. He moved forward a half-pace to give himself room to swing and shattered the chest of the first man at him. The Acolyte was flung right, cannoning into those next to him, dead before he hit the ground.

Ilkar watched the line. To The Unknown’s left, Thraun snapped his blade up to deflect the strike of the man in front of him, moved and punched out his left hand with extraordinary speed. He caught the man in the mouth, rammed the hilt of his blade into his midriff, head-butted him, then plunged his blade into the Acolyte’s gut. He roared and looked for his next man.

For Jandyr, though, the situation was more difficult. Despite his ability, having only one hand and a weakened body left him very wary. For now, he satisfied himself with defence, the sweat starting to form on his forehead. Will, his dual short swords whirling in front of him, laced cut after cut at the men in front of him, fielding blows and countering with speed and dexterity.

‘Shield up,’ said Erienne.

Across the corridor, Thraun was destroying his attackers, the speed of his fist and blade too much for the Acolytes, who lacked the experience and determination of The Raven.

After The Unknown had carved open the face of another, the Acolytes fell back in response to shouted commands. Guardians rushed to fill the breach, curved blades flashing in the sunlight then dulling as they reached the tunnel’s shade.

‘Let’s go again, Raven,’ shouted The Unknown. ‘We can take them.’

An explosion sounded to the right of the square. Blue light flashed briefly. The Acolytes outside froze briefly in surprise and ran left. Styliann had arrived in the square.

Darrick roared his men on as he dashed the skull of a Shaman with his blade, the Shaman’s magic shutting off as his lifeless body flopped to the floor. On seven fronts the Wesmen lines were breached and the surviving defenders were weakening.

‘Close ranks!’ he yelled. ‘Pressure the right. We’re moving for the square.’ He urged his mount forwards, bludgeoning another Wesmen warrior as he picked up pace, his men tightening their grip behind him. With the Shamen threat almost removed, some of his mages turned their attention to the offence, and HardRain fell on the right-hand end of the Wesmen lines. It was too much for the defenders. All along the battle front Wesmen broke ranks and ran, some into the Wastes, others back into Parve.

‘Cavalry, to me!’ Darrick’s shout was picked up by his lieutenants, and the four-College cavalry surged through the remnants of Wesmen resistance and raced for the pyramid, a detonation from the square ringing in their ears.

Styliann’s second EarthHammer had torn great holes in Parve’s central square and triggered the panic he wanted. The Protectors had fanned into a single skirmish line ninety men wide and were sweeping towards the pyramid, swords and axes rising, falling and slicing, thundering through the Acolytes, whose pitiful defences were ripped apart.

The Lord of the Mount wasn’t finished, and his latest FlameOrb fell in the centre of the scattering, milling Acolytes, exploding and sending flame lashing in all directions. Men and women were destroyed, others catching tongues of mana fire, which scorched faces and lit up cloaks.

The Acolytes began to pour out of the western and northern sides of the square but changed direction again, herding and running back towards the pyramid. Styliann’s frowns turned to smiles as he saw the first of the four-College cavalry galloping in. Parve was almost theirs.

The Keepers felt the beginnings of Denser’s casting and surged to their feet, snatching daggers from belts.

‘Infidel,’ hissed one as Hirad barred their way, his frame large in the doorway. He beckoned them on while behind him Denser closed his eyes and entered another world.

So unlike the test shapes he had made, preparing Dawnthief with the catalysts in front of his kneeling body added a new dimension. Before, the shape had been two-dimensional, and grey in colour. Now, blood red, it modulated in the air, sending shivers through the mana flow around Denser’s head. He fought to contain it, willing it to mould into the shape he needed.

But it was as if it had life of its own, and at every turn, more sides joined the complex polygon. He couldn’t allow that. To cast with any more sides would be to cast with enough power to destroy everything to the east of the mountains, and deep within him burned the desire to get out alive.

Denser added the catalyst commands to the mix, and the mana shape pulsed with myriad colours. Finally, he had exerted control, but the measurements had to be so utterly precise. He had to be sure of strength, of direction, of distance. He dropped back into himself and checked every line, every colour and every pulse. And as he did so, Dawnthief fought to break free.

Hirad surveyed the slaughter in progress. While he was barring the door, only one at a time could come at him with any freedom, and he just cut them down as they did so. Six-inch daggers could never hope to beat a long sword, and because they would not stop coming, he did not stop killing them. Once six were down, his biggest problem lay in not slipping on the blood-slick floor.

Hirad clambered over the bodies to take the last two. Never uttering a word, he swatted them down and then looked in disgust at what he had done. They might as well have been unarmed, so futile was their defence, and he felt sick to his stomach. Never mind that they had been Acolytes of the Wytch Lords, it was the ease with which he had turned off and massacred them that was the cause of his nausea.