He’d put up his sword and turned to leave the room when he heard the grating of stone on stone. His blood chilled, the temperature of the room dived again and his body began to shake. He forced himself to turn, gorge rising, fighting the urge to scream. One of the sarcophagus lids had moved. Just a little. But it had moved. He backed away. It moved again. He stepped on a body and fell sliding in the gore, slipping forwards and coming to rest right underneath one of the stone caskets. Its lid moved. Then they all did, grating together and sending tremors through Hirad’s body that left him heaving for air.

He scrabbled backwards, trying to get his feet under him, but the floor was so wet. He dragged himself to his haunches, turned and pulled bodies out of his way, the only thought in his mind that he had to close the door. He didn’t know why, he just had to. The first clang drew a cry from his lips and he felt his heart lurch. The pain in his chest was brief and intense.

‘Oh, Gods,’ he breathed. ‘Come on, Denser. Come on, Denser.’ But through the door he could see the Dark Mage still preparing. He dared not look behind him. Another clang. And another. He hauled the last body from the doorway, leapt outside, grabbed the handle and slammed it shut. His eyes caught the scene in the chamber. Long-fingered bone hands were clutching the sides of the caskets, white digits clacking on the stone as they sought for purchase.

Nausea swept through his body. The evil of centuries flooded the chamber, forcing the air from his lungs and the strength from his legs, which sagged beneath him as he clutched and pushed at the door handle, trying desperately to believe that he had been mistaken in what he had seen. But he knew he wasn’t. He had seen the end of Balaia rising from the grave, the animation of a horror so black it defied reason and struck at the very core of sanity. A power great enough to cast down mountains, tear holes in the sky and make rivers of blood from the bodies of the peoples of the east.

Hirad gasped, his fingers losing sensation as he struggled to maintain a consciousness that seeped from him with every laboured heartbeat. He held the door against Balaia’s greatest enemy, a pitiful wretch trying to stop night from falling.

The Wytch Lords were awake.

The Guardians were skilled and fierce, driven by fury at the desecration of their masters’ tomb. In The Raven line, The Unknown and Thraun defended and killed with power and pace. But at the right-hand end, the going was less sure. Jandyr was struggling in front of a clever swordsman who had immediately recognised his opponent’s problem and hacked overhead, driving the elf’s blade close to his face. Will, although defending stoutly enough, was making little headway, breaking through the guard of his enemy just the once to mark his cheek with a long, ugly cut.

Erienne watched on, maintaining the HardShield but beginning to feel it was pointless. Ilkar was no doubt thinking much the same. As she watched, Jandyr’s arm buckled under another heavy blow, and before he could recover, the Guardian had skewered his heart, the elf crying out as he fell.

‘No!’ The Unknown surged as he heard Jandyr die, crashing his blade through a Guardian’s skull and reversing his swing to smash another’s hip. A beat later, Darrick ran in at the head of a centile of cavalry and mages. Caught between twin meshes of flashing steel, the remaining Guardians were quickly slaughtered. Darrick nodded at The Unknown, taking in the lifeless body of Jandyr as Will crouched over the elf.

‘Damn it,’ said the General. He turned to a lieutenant. ‘You. I want guard on this tunnel, I want cavalry sweeping the City and I want this square clear of enemies. Do it now.’ He swung back to The Unknown. ‘Where’s Hirad?’

‘In the pyramid with Denser.’ The Unknown was breathing hard.

‘Get after them. I’ll hold things here. Styliann’s outside, there should be no danger.’

The Unknown nodded his thanks.

‘Raven! Raven with me!’

Styliann surveyed the square with great satisfaction. Acolyte bodies covered it, their blood and cloaks making a carpet of red. Here and there, pockets of Wesmen attacked the cavalry and his Protectors, but their resistance was broken. He sighed. As they took Parve by surprise, making a mockery of the wholly insufficient defence, so the weight of the Wesmen armies were surely marching in the east, driving all before them.

He rode towards the entrance to the tunnel and dismounted, leaning against its right-hand pillar, suddenly tired. The last battle was taking place inside, but he found he had no desire to join it.

His mana stamina was low, his desire for vengeance appeased. He could wait for Dawnthief to walk back out and straight into his possession. He sat and rested his head in his hands, a wind ruffling his hair.

Hirad’s knuckles whitened on the handle, the sounds from within the room dragging whimpers from his body and sweat from his pores. He felt cold. Hot. So very hot. Cold. His muscles felt they were about to seize and his legs shook so much their juddering unsteadied him. His eyes swam, his head fogged. And then he felt pressure on the handle from the other side. Gentle at first, but quickly more urgent.

‘Denser, please.’ His whispers choked in his throat. His hands tightened on the door handle. It turned underneath them, just slightly. Fists thudded against the door, jarring his body as he leant all his weight against it. A heavy blow and the door all but opened. From behind, the sounds of exultation, of rising, of power. Hirad felt the breath stick in his lungs.

‘Denser!’ he screamed. ‘Now!’ Behind him, Denser moaned and chanted, his short breathing jabbing anxiety into Hirad’s mind. He wasn’t sure but the Xeteskian sounded as if he was struggling badly. And the spell remained uncast.

The second blow shattered the door timbers. Hirad was thrown skittering across the marble, wrist aflame with agony.

‘Denser!’ The silhouette of a Wytch Lord stood in the doorway, tattered burial robe hanging, flesh creeping over exposed bones. Hirad saw eyeless sockets in a wedge-shaped head as the towering figure stooped under the lintel. It breathed.

‘Heretic.’ Its voice like a body dragged over gravel.

As Hirad watched, the flesh began to form and grow on its body.

Slowly at first, then with greater and greater pace, enveloping its hands, rushing up its legs and stretching over its ribs, covering the organs which grew and writhed and beat from nothing.

The Wytch Lord, tall and terrible, looked down on him as its body re-formed, empty sockets alive with new life, eyes sucking into being, dark, cold and murderous. Other figures crowded behind it. It took a pace forward, the rags of its clothing growing into robes of pure white, ruffling in the breeze of their creation, its bare feet gaining bulk and muscle, toes straightening.

Hirad glanced at Denser. The Dark Mage, sweat beading and running from his forehead, fought with the spell. His arms, now stretched in front of him, juddered wildly; his voice, low and hoarse, gabbled words the barbarian would never understand.

‘Hurry, Denser,’ said Hirad, drawing his sword. ‘Hurry.’ He moved to the ready. The Wytch Lords stood in the doorway to the burial chamber, looming over him, each one well in excess of eight feet in height.

‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘See if you can take me.’ He raised his sword and prepared to move. So did the Wytch Lords, the first stepping into the antechamber, its brothers moving to either side. Hirad licked his lips. He was about to die but it wouldn’t be alone. Because behind him he heard the pacing of feet and the tapping of steel on stone; rhythmic, echoing, beautiful. A euphoric sensation ran up his spine, the blood surged in his veins and new belief flooded his mind. It was all he needed to give Denser the time to complete Dawnthief.