‘You be careful, Denser,’ warned Erienne.

‘The thought is lodged in my mind.’ He shot up and back, heading for the southern end of the camp. Hirad followed the flight; the black shaft of an arrow silhouetted against the light swept past them. Immediately afterwards, the gates of the cow- and horse-pens shattered and the animals stampeded.

‘Let’s go, Raven.’ Hirad ran for the shore, leaving Thraun to his slaughter and the mages to their destruction.

Thraun could smell the fires, the fear and the blood mixed with the scent of prey animal and dog. He picked his way quickly through the grass, pale brown body blending with the colours of night, paws silent. He stopped at the perimeter of the human occupation, myriad scents vying for dominance. He ignored them. In front of man-packbrother, enemies gathered. They threatened, their sharp weapons raised. With the sound of the pack echoing in his mind and the smell of the forest forward in his memory, he charged.

The first enemy hadn’t even faced him. He leapt, jaws closing on unprotected throat, left paw connecting with his chest, right beating another to the ground. Blood filled his mouth and coated his nose, his growl of pleasure the last sound his victim heard.

Panic gripped the enemy. They broke and ran. Thraun turned his head. Man-packbrother and the others were moving swiftly away. Water. His brain fought to remember. He would meet them on the water. He looked down, lashing a paw into the man he’d knocked down. He stopped moving, blood covering the wreckage of his face. Thraun howled again and set off, tracking man-packbrother, fighting the urge to chase down the prey animals that bolted here and there, their terror a tempting taste in his mouth.

Man-packbrother moved along the edge of the occupation. Thraun was inside the first line of dwellings, most of which burned, their occupants either dead or running blindly. There was no order. From his right, he heard sounds of alarm. Three enemy moved towards man-packbrother. Thraun hit them at a dead run, catching the first on his chest and sending him sprawling into the others. Consumed with the blood, he ripped and tore, his fangs chopping into flesh as he worked his head left and right, his paws beating, claws dragging.

From above, an enemy hit him with his sharp weapon. It stung his hide and he yelped, rounding on his tormentor, whose eyes widened. It had been a hard blow but Thraun’s side had not split. He bared his fangs and advanced.

Denser flew back towards the blazing marquees, rising high to assess the mayhem he had so spectacularly initiated. Panicked Wesmen beat at the edges of the fires, their bucket chain scarcely making a dent in the heat and destruction. Ilkar’s ForceCone had knocked the animal picketing flat on a twenty-foot stretch and in the confusion of fear and fire, horses and cattle stampeded away from the bright yellow blazes licking the air, trampling man and tent indiscriminately.

To his left, Thraun clamped his jaws on the sword-arm of a hapless Wesman warrior and further on in the shadows cast by the fire, he caught the odd glimpse of The Raven, tracking towards the shore, unmolested for the moment.

Ilkar, cradled in his arms, was getting heavy. Denser was a strong man and the ShadowWings he had cast were trimmed for weight but there was a limit and the growing ache in his limbs was beginning to threaten his concentration.

‘What have you got left?’ asked Denser.

‘FlameOrbs or another ForceCone. I want to keep enough to shield the boat,’ replied Ilkar. ‘More to the point, what have you got left?’

‘I’ll let you know,’ said Denser.

‘How?’

‘You’ll start falling.’

‘Funny.’

‘Just get concentrating on those Orbs. If we can disrupt the bucket chain, we might get clean away.’ Ilkar nodded and closed his eyes, his mouth moving slightly, fingers describing intricate circles in the air. Denser leaned back to counter the shift in balance.

Denser watched the expert movements of the efficient mage, arms almost still, hands creating the shape with the words his mouth framed. Nothing was wasted, no mana stamina escaped. He was a consummate mage, his magic learned through long years and honed through sometimes agonising practice. Denser knew this because it had been the same for him.

Yet, despite Ilkar’s clever use of his stamina, he was beginning to tire while Denser felt as fresh as he had before he had cast his CloakedWalk. Something had happened to him during his casting of Dawnthief. A new linking with the mana, a coupling forged deep in the core of his being. And it had given him new ways to construct his shapes. Much as Styliann harnessed mana in a way so thrifty and quick it took away the breath, so Denser had that understanding. But it was more than mere understanding. It was fundamental coexistence with the fuel of magic.

Ilkar nodded, Denser’s signal that he was ready to cast. His eyes were now open, focused on the target ahead. Denser flew above the bucket chain, out over Triverne Inlet and round again, coming up the line giving Ilkar the widest target area he could.

‘FlameOrbs.’ Ilkar clapped his hands and opened his palms. A trio of orange globes rested there, growing to the size of apples before he jerked his hands down and apart, the FlameOrbs flashing away. They grew as they fell, to the size of skulls when they collided with the unprotected Wesmen, splashing fire that consumed fur and flesh, the screams of the burning rising over the crackle of the fires that engulfed the camp.

Denser, his arms pained from shoulder to wrist, headed down to the beach.

Hirad broke into a sprint as Ilkar’s FlameOrbs destroyed the bucket chain, fracturing the Wesmen’s fragile organisation. He raced around the final tents before the shore, leading The Raven across the sand, the Wesmen forgetting all thoughts of saving their tents, turning instead to help kinsmen whose agonised cries split the night.

Ahead of him, Thraun paused, looked to see that Will was safe, and streaked across the sand towards Denser and Ilkar who had landed near the boats. Hirad pushed on, crunching sand underfoot, the rhythmic fall of small waves on the shore contrasting with the clamour of noise from the ruined camp. Ahead of him, Thraun brought down a Wesman warrior from behind, the man’s bucket flying from his grasp, the warning sounds of his kinsmen too late to save him.

There was a dip in the level of the bedlam. The fires raged on but the Wesmen paused, making a concerted move for their weaponry as it dawned on them exactly what was happening.

‘We’ve got to move fast,’ said The Unknown by Hirad’s shoulder.

‘Raven!’ shouted Hirad. ‘Raven with me.’ He charged towards a knot of Wesmen who had gathered near Thraun. The wolf snarled, darting in, jaws snapping, claws whistling through the air. Wary, the Wesmen kept their distance. But they couldn’t avoid The Raven.

‘Erienne, find a boat. We need a fast sail. Will, defend the mages. Unknown, with me.’ He tore into the Wesmen, sword chopping through fur and flesh. Beside him, The Unknown’s blade caught the glare of the fires as it plunged into his victims. Thraun, sensing he was helped, howled and leapt, jaws burying into a shoulder.

Hirad parried an axe sweep to his head, his sword sliding down the shaft, shaving wood and chopping the gripping fingers from his assailant’s hands. The man shuddered, mouth open in shock, axe falling. Hirad’s next blow took out his throat. More Wesmen saw them. Thraun ran over his latest kill to attack the oncoming pack. Swords rose and fell but Hirad could see as he smashed a fist into an enemy nose and brought his blade through his stomach, that Thraun sustained no wounds.