Ultimately, Denser had reluctantly agreed to Ilkar’s original plan but Hirad harboured worries. Denser was not thinking straight and that could mean great danger for Ilkar as the two mages scaled the watch-tower.

Any sabotage would follow the commandeering of a suitable boat. The fireworks Ilkar had in mind would blow their cover and require a quick getaway but the vote had carried. All were aware of the urgency of their mission but Ilkar in particular was keen to disrupt supply to the attack on the Colleges.

From the top of the gully’s northern end, the way down was rocky but firm and led towards the edge of the sheer cliff, at the base of which tumbles of stone jutted from the water. They kept to the base of the cliff, hugging its shadow as it curved towards the camp until Thraun called a halt beyond the periphery of likely Wesmen vision. The night was dark this low on the ground and it was little more than a hundred yards to the first tent of the encampment. For now, they were out of sight of the tower and secure. A few yards further on, the ground fell away and would leave them exposed.

‘We will follow on in three hundred counts unless we hear sounds of trouble,’ said Thraun. ‘You know the meeting point. Are you ready?’ Ilkar nodded. Denser shrugged.

‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. Hirad stared at him bleakly.

‘Concentrate on your position, Denser,’ he said. ‘Any lapse could kill you both and that would be unforgivable.’

‘I haven’t lost my eyesight or sense,’ said Denser.

‘Just your sense of purpose,’ said Ilkar.

‘Nor my respect for my friends,’ continued Denser, staring hard at Ilkar.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Right. Let’s get going.’

Ilkar and Denser intoned quietly, moving their hands up and down their bodies. With a curt nod, Denser walked forward a pace and disappeared. Ilkar followed him and Hirad could hear them talking low as they moved off.

‘Gods, he’d better not let me down,’ said Hirad.

‘He won’t,’ said Erienne. ‘If nothing else he isn’t stupid.’

‘Just stubborn, difficult and bloody miserable,’ said Hirad.

‘Nobody’s perfect.’ Erienne smiled but it was forced and unhappy.

‘No.’ Hirad looked towards the Wesmen encampment.

As agreed, Ilkar took the lead with Denser right behind him, one finger hooked in his belt. The CloakedWalks wreathed their bodies in invisibility but did not muffle their sound and Ilkar kept to bare earth, being careful to skirt the waist-high plains grass that edged the cliffs and grew in patches across the ground and away up the slope where they had first taken in the camp.

‘Don’t stop when we hit the ladder,’ said Denser.

‘I won’t,’ said Ilkar a little sharply. ‘I am aware of the limitations of the spell. And keep your voice down.’

‘My pleasure,’ hissed Denser.

‘What the hell has happened to you, Denser?’ whispered Ilkar, all his ire gone.

‘You wouldn’t understand,’ replied the Dark Mage, his voice quiet and vulnerable.

‘Try me.’

‘Later. Are you going left or right in the tower?’

‘Left, as agreed.’

‘Just checking,’ said Denser.

The camp was quiet as they approached, passing the peripheral tents pitched around their standards. The two mages slowed. From the nearest tent, the sounds of snoring filtered through the canvas. Across the camp, a horse whinnied and the unmistakable odour of pig filth drifted on the wind which gusted and swirled through the camp, rattling tentage, tightening rope on peg and blowing the odd snatch of conversation from tower or central fire.

Ilkar appraised their task. From the safety of the gully it had seemed simple enough but, closer to, the watch-tower seemed tall and crowded with powerful Wesmen. Ilkar looked the tower up and down as they neared it, silent now but for their footfalls.

The tower stood about twenty feet high and was constructed from four stout central trunks sunk into the ground and packed at their base with rock for extra stability. A lattice of strengthening timbers criss-crossed their way to the roofed platform on which stood the pair of Wesmen guards. In the left-hand corner of the platform, a bell was fixed to one of the roof supports, its clapper tied off against wind and careless elbow.

‘Remember, the throat or through the eye to the brain. We can’t afford for them to cry out,’ whispered Denser.

‘I know,’ said Ilkar, but inside the knot of nerves tightened. This was not the sort of action he was used to. He’d killed a number of times before but with the sword or with an offensive spell. This, he wasn’t used to at all. ‘I’m going straight up.’

The ladder ran up between the two poles facing into the camp and finished at a gap in the waist-high balustrade that ran around the platform. The two bored guards were leaning on its outward edge, sometimes exchanging low words but mostly quiet.

Ilkar grasped the sides of the ladder, being careful not to lose momentum. The wood creaked alarmingly, his heart missed a beat and his eyes scanned the platform for signs of agitation but the Wesmen seemed not to have heard. For now, at least, the wind was in their favour.

Ilkar’s nerves became a fear which gripped him for a moment. This was a job for a warrior but none of them could hold the spell in place. Even The Unknown, who had operated ShadowWings shortly after his release from the thrall of the Protector calling, could not hope to maintain a CloakedWalk. There was a subtlety to the spell that had to be learned and enjoyed. The ability to hold the mana shape when stationary and visible, and to perform simple tasks while on the move without losing spell concentration, were nuances not quickly mastered. Simple tasks like murder, thought Ilkar grimly.

Five rungs from the top, everything started to go astray. With each step, the new wood protested, not yet bedded to its fastening. Ilkar slowed but there was an inevitability about the head of a curious guard that appeared at the top of the ladder, frowning down into the gloom beneath him, seeing nothing.

Ilkar felt Denser’s hand on the rung his trailing foot was just vacating. They weren’t supposed to get that close - Denser hadn’t slowed, and couldn’t have seen the danger.

‘Move back,’ Ilkar urged the guard under his breath as he climbed inexorably upwards, slowing still further. To slow any more would be to become visible and to become visible would be to die. ‘Move back.’ He made another step, keeping his feet to the ends of the rungs, but another creak cracked the night, deafening to Ilkar’s ears. The Wesman leaned further out, peering down with intense concentration, knowing what he was hearing but confused by what he wasn’t seeing.

Ilkar thought briefly about heading down but the change in direction would give him away, not to mention catching Denser completely unawares. The stupidity of the situation fell about his head.

The guard straightened but did not move from the edge of the platform. Keeping his gaze firmly set on the ladder below him, Ilkar placed his hand on the rung directly beneath the Wesman’s feet and drew his dagger with the other. He really had no other choice.

‘Oh Gods,’ he muttered, and surged upwards, blade before him, taking the guard in the crotch, where it lodged. The man grunted in shock and pain, staggered back a pace and fell to the ground, dragging the dagger from Ilkar’s grasp, clutching between his legs as blood blossomed to stain his leggings.

Ilkar kept moving left, knowing Denser would take the right. As the guard hit the platform with a dull thud, his companion turned, his mouth dropping open at the sight that greeted him. He started to speak but Denser’s thrown dagger caught him clear in the throat, his shout turning to gargles as the blood poured from the wound.

Ilkar looked down at his victim who opened his mouth, a low agonised keening escaping his lips. He crouched, snatched his second dagger and jammed it through the man’s open eye into his brain. He died instantly. The surviving Wesman clutched at the dagger in his throat as he staggered backwards, his jaws moving soundlessly, his eyes wide as Ilkar switched into view.