Thus, his chosen route. It was the most direct to Xetesk by several days but contained the largest obstacle. Tessaya. But even the fact that Tessaya expected him was not necessarily a fatal disadvantage. After all, Styliann was under guard and coming to talk. The Wesmen would hardly be massing their armies. Indeed, quite the reverse if he knew anything about Tessaya’s mind. And Styliann had the advantage of knowing precisely when he would arrive, a luxury not afforded the Lord of the Wesmen.

As the sun reached the heights of the midday sky, Styliann, his Protectors and a guard of forty Wesmen moved into Understone Pass, the former Lord of the Mount the only one on horseback. The Wesmen were guides, monitors and a guard of honour, Riasu had said and at the time Styliann had found it hard not to laugh.

Did the Wesman Lord really believe Styliann could get lost in a Pass with only one bore? And what good did he think forty would be against ninety of the most complete fighting machines in Balaia? The answer to the latter was, as it turned out, none at all.

Styliann yawned and looked behind him. As at the head of the column, twenty Wesmen were marching along the pass, the light from their lanterns decorating the dark slate walls with elaborate dancing shadows as they moved. Above him, a natural fissure ran up into the heart of the Blackthorne Mountains. Up ahead, however, the ceiling shelved down sharply to a height of less than fifteen feet and on one side the path fell away into a chasm that struck into the depths of hell.

The air was damp and cool and, here and there, water dripped, the escape of some long forgotten rainfall or buried tributary. The sounds of foot and hoof combined with the slap of scabbard on thigh to echo ever louder from the walls as they closed in. Hardly a word had been exchanged, none between Styliann and the Wesmen, and the warriors’ bravado had fast given way to uneasy whispers and ultimately an anxious silence. Understone Pass did that to people. The power overhead and the press to left and right stole confidence, hunched shoulders and hurried footsteps.

The column made good time and, an hour into the march, had a little more than three still to go. The barracks built into the western end of the pass were far behind and no one, east or west, could hear them.

Styliann smiled. It was time. He had no need of guides or lanterns or monitors. It would have been better for the guard had they stayed west. At least there they would have lived a little longer.

Considering his options, Styliann decided against depleting his mana stamina reserves however slightly. It was a pointless exercise. None of the Wesmen had bows - an omission none of them would live to regret. He leaned forward in his saddle, mouth close to the ear of Cil, now a favoured Protector, who marched in the centre of the defensive cordon that comprehensively shielded Styliann.

‘Destroy them,’ he whispered. Cil’s head moved fractionally in acknowledgement. Without breaking stride, he relayed the order to his brothers. Styliann smiled again as an instant’s tension crackled the air before the Wesmen were engulfed in a battle they didn’t realise had started until it was effectively over.

Eight wide, the front rank of Protectors swept axes from waist hitches and plunged them into the backs and necks of the oblivious Wesmen a few paces ahead. Behind, the thirty Protectors swivelled, axes to the ready and slammed into the wide-eyed rear guard.

The cacophony of shouts and cries that filled the air were calls to death, not to arms. In the front the Protectors surged on into the Wesmen guard, axes rising, falling and sweeping, blood smearing the pass, the sick thud of metal striking flesh loud in Styliann’s ears.

Struggling to turn and draw weapons, the Wesmen lost all shape, the shock of the assault defeating clear thought. Even as a few faced their attackers, they were cut down by the relentless accuracy and power of the Protectors whose every pace was for gain, whose every blow struck home and who never uttered a sound from behind their masks.

To the rear, at least there was resistance, however brief. Howling a rallying cry, one Wesman stood firm, others around him taking his lead. For a few moments, sparks lit the passage adding a flickering aspect to the lantern-lit nightmare and the clash of steel on steel rang out in the enclosed space. But the Protectors simply increased the pace and ferocity of their attack, moving to strike again almost before the last blow was complete and forcing the Wesmen back in a desperate and futile defence.

With blood slicking the floor and the dismembered and hideously scarred bodies of their kinsmen littering the ground, with the impassive masks of the dread force facing them down, the remaining Wesmen, perhaps ten altogether, turned and fled, screaming warnings that no one would hear as they went.

‘Catch them and kill them,’ said Styliann.

Half a dozen Protectors from each end picked their way deliberately over the carnage and ran east or west, their footfalls sounding impending death as they chased down their hapless quarry.

With the lanterns gone in the hands of fleeing Wesmen, or crushed underfoot, Styliann cast a LightGlobe and raised his eyebrows at the destruction he had ordered.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Any injuries?’

‘Minor cuts to two, my Lord,’ replied Cil. ‘Nothing more.’

‘Excellent,’ he repeated, nodding. ‘Now. Clear the bodies over the side. I will ride forward and you will stand by me.’

Again the almost imperceptible nod of the head. Immediately, Protectors stooped to drag the bodies from the passage to dump them in the chasm. Styliann urged on his nervous horse, Cil and five others flanking him, three either side. A few yards further on, he stopped and dismounted, dusted himself down and sat with his back to the north wall of the pass, the LightGlobe illuminating the rough-hewn rock.

Little impressed Styliann but Understone Pass certainly did. It represented a combination of extraordinary human and natural engineering. Built for profit and conquest, it had proved to be a millstone. He scratched his cheek below his left eye and shrugged. It was the way of so much meant for good to become evil.

‘And now we wait,’ he said to Cil. ‘Or rather, you do. I have work to do.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I have need of your soul companions.’

In the fading gentle light of late afternoon, Lord Tessaya took a walk around the boundaries of Understone, a worry beginning to nag at the back of his mind. It had been a day of extreme contrasts.

The message brought back by his bird had spoiled his mood but not his plans. The fast riders from Riasu at the eastern end of the pass had brought remarkable and unexpected news that could prove pivotal. Control of the Xeteskian Lord Mage was a prize worthy of the effort of containing his power. Never mind the dread force surrounding him. If he could be isolated, they could be nullified and eventually destroyed. There was no greater bargaining counter than Styliann. And he had volunteered to lend assistance in return for his speedy repatriation to his College. Fine. Tessaya was entirely happy to promise everything and give nothing. Particularly to a mage.

But something wasn’t right. His initial euphoria at Styliann’s naïveté, and the apparent over-confidence in his worth, had led to him dispatching the riders back immediately, bearing his written invitation. He had toyed with the idea of meeting Styliann with overwhelming force but had no desire to waste the lives of his men when, given a little patience, he could reach his goal without spilling a drop of Wesmen blood.

But now, with the day fast waning, Tessaya, whose tour of the reinforced stockade Darrick had built had been completed some time ago, was worried. And another circuit of the garrison town had done nothing to alleviate that worry.