‘Is this watch-tower thing your whole plan?’ asked Will. Thraun shook his head.

‘In terms of getting us into the camp safely, yes, pretty much. But our idea focused on two other things. First, a back-up in case we are seen and second, we were debating a little sabotage while we were here.’

‘Oh God,’ muttered Denser.

Hirad smiled. ‘It would be rude not to,’ he said. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Styliann did not travel to the Bay of Gyernath. Nor did he have any intention of so doing from the moment he left Darrick’s pitiful band of horsemen. He had been approached by the Xeteskians in the cavalry but they could not offer him anything and he was not in the frame of mind to lead any but the very best in fighting speed, skill and stamina.

So he approached the fortifications at the eastern end of Understone Pass with only ninety Protectors around him. He faced perhaps fifteen hundred Wesmen warriors but wasn’t unduly worried. In a straight fight, he suspected he could force surrender or outright rout but he hadn’t come to fight. He had come to organise a swift passage back to the east and to promise something he had no intention of giving. Help.

His arrival caused a great deal of consternation on the platform that ran around the inside of the partially built stockade. Shouts filled the air, bows were bent and dogs barked. He was ordered to halt and did so, the fading light of late afternoon glinting off the masks of his Protectors, their quiet stillness clearly unsettling the Wesmen.

Styliann sat on his horse in the centre of the protective echelon, his hands on the pommel of his saddle, watching the Wesmen come to some semblance of order. An initial urge to run to the attack was halted, and out of the angry and threatening gathering came one man flanked by four others. He strode purposefully across the space between them until he stood only a few yards from the front rank of Protectors. Two dozen masked heads moved fractionally to watch him and his guard, their weapons held at rest but their bodies tensed for action.

The Wesman spoke in tribal Wes dialect, his accent clipped and harsh, his speech quick but confident.

‘You are trespassing on lands that belong to the unified tribes. State your reason for approaching.’

‘I am sorry for my sudden arrival,’ replied Styliann, his Wes rusty but serviceable so long as he kept to the basics. ‘Before I speak, I ask who I am speaking to.’

The Wesman inclined his head slightly.

‘Your use of my language earns you some small respect,’ he said. ‘My name is Riasu. I would have yours.’

‘I am Styliann, Lord of Xetesk.’ He saw no reason to correct the slight inaccuracy. ‘You are in charge here?’ Riasu nodded.

‘I have a force of more than two thousand tribal warriors who have closed the pass to our enemies. You have the look of one such.’

Styliann was sure his use of language was far more colourful but it was the best translation he could make in the time he had.

‘The skill of your warriors is known to me,’ said Styliann, struggling for the right words. ‘But you have no magic. I bring you that.’

Riasu laughed. ‘We have no need of your magic. It is evil and must die. As must you.’ Styliann remained impassive despite the threat.

‘I know your fear—’ he began.

‘I have no fear,’ snapped Riasu, his tone hardening. Styliann raised his hands in a gesture of calm.

‘Your - ah - belief. But know the truth of it. Your arrows cannot harm me or my men. Try.’ Styliann’s HardShield was raised in seconds but Riasu merely shook his head.

‘I know your magic,’ he said. ‘What do you want that would stop me wanting your head.’

‘Who is the leader of your armies in the East?’

‘The Lord Tessaya.’

‘I will speak to him,’ said Styliann.

‘If I allow your travel,’ said Riasu. ‘Something I have no wish to do. What do you want?’

Styliann nodded, unwilling to make a show of force. The very fact that Riasu had not ordered an attack on him demonstrated the Wesman’s caution and fear of the force of magic, not to mention the obvious power of the Protectors. But he was concerned that this lesser Lord would misunderstand him and he could not afford to lose any Protectors this side of the pass.

‘Let us sit, talk and eat by a fire,’ said the former Lord of the Mount. ‘Out here on neutral ground.’

‘Very well.’ Riasu shouted orders back to his men at the gate of the stockade. A flurry of activity resulted in firewood, a cooking pot, food and an increased guard arriving in the space between Styliann and the tribal Lord. Soon, the fire was blazing and water heating up over the flames. Declining any pleasantries, Riasu and Styliann took up positions on opposite sides of the fire, a dozen guards behind each of them. The remainder of Styliann’s Protectors were ordered back as far from their master as the Wesmen were from theirs.

Styliann smiled inwardly at the arrangement set out by Riasu. He had no conception of the communication the Protectors enjoyed. If the meeting broke down, Riasu would be dead, his guard overrun and Styliann reinforced long before any help could arrive from the stockade. Still, it made him happy and that was all Styliann really wanted.

With wine and meat in hand, Riasu began.

‘I will not say this is a pleasure. But I will not toss my warriors’ lives away in needless fight. This is one thing Tessaya has taught us.’

‘But it has not halted large loss of life in Julatsa,’ said Styliann, preferring to keep his mind clear with a hot rough leaf tea that a quick divining spell had revealed as harmless, if a little bitter.

‘I know nothing of that.’

‘I do.’ Styliann looked at the reaction of Riasu, his augmented eyesight piercing both fire glare and gathering gloom to see a flicker of doubt in the Wesman’s face. ‘Your feelings about magic do you no help,’ he continued. ‘You hate magic because you do not understand it. If you did, you would see that it could help you.’

Riasu snorted. ‘I think not. We are a warrior race. Your tricks may kill and maim and see things far away but we will triumph over you one day.’

Styliann sighed. He could see this discussion going round in circles.

‘Yet you said you would not toss away the lives of your men. If you do not listen to me, you will be doing that.’ Styliann cursed his lack of vocabulary in tribal Wes. It was difficult to make any emphasis and Riasu needed his eyes opened very crudely if he was to see sense and give Styliann access to the pass.

‘Tell me of your bargain.’ Riasu moved subject without any evidence he had heard, let alone comprehended, anything Styliann had said so far.

‘It is simple,’ said Styliann. ‘I would regain access to my College quickly. You wish to destroy magic. You can help me do the one and I will help you do the other if you let my magic live.’

‘We are sworn to end all magic.’ Riasu shrugged. ‘Why should we bargain with you?’

‘You will never end all magic,’ said Styliann shortly. ‘If one mage lives, there is magic. If there is magic, it can be learned by others. And you will never take Xetesk.’

‘You are so sure. But if you were to die here, what then?’

Styliann kneaded his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand. He should have expected this rather blinkered and aggressive pig-headedness but that knowledge didn’t help his frustration.

‘You won’t kill me here. You haven’t the strength,’ he said, looking Riasu directly in the eye. The Wesman stiffened.

‘You dare to threaten me in my own lands?’

‘No.’ Styliann permitted himself to relax and chuckle. ‘I just speak the truth.’

‘Two thousand men,’ said Riasu, jerking a thumb in the direction of the stockade.

‘I know. But your beliefs—’ (oh, to know the word for ignorance)