‘Stay here,’ he ordered. ‘They will not see me.’ Styliann disappeared from their view, his hand trailing the left-hand wall, a dull luminescence taking the totality from the darkness. He walked briskly, his eyes adjusting to the increasing light that filtered along the passage. It was, he guessed, around four hours from dawn. Night was full outside but, in comparison to the black of the pass, the sky was bright. Inside it was chill and damp and Styliann was glad of his cloak.

There were no obvious signs of build-up at the entrance to the pass but a guard of eight or so sat around a fire just outside. Styliann pitied them. The Xeteskian storm would see them to their graves before they knew it had broken.

He continued walking slowly forward, coming to within a dozen paces of the guards where he crouched behind a slide of rock caused by the spell his own mages, organised by Dystran, had cast to massacre so many Wesmen. The scent of death would remain in the pass forever.

None of the guard was facing into the pass, which Styliann found a little strange. Over-confidence caused carelessness. He looked beyond them to what he could see of Understone itself. Darrick’s defences had been considerably strengthened and watch-towers sprang from eight places that Styliann could count. His view was partially obscured by the slope down to the base of the gates Tessaya had constructed but the glow of further fires told of more guards outside the town.

Understone was quiet. The Wesmen slept while above the sky was clear and the air was still and cool. He wouldn’t get a better opportunity. Styliann, again cloaked by magic, slipped back to join the Protectors.

Understone’s night was uneasy. Tessaya stalked the quiet streets, for once unsure of himself. Kessarin was among the best, the duty Captain had assured him of this. He would find the guard and report back but, if he had to travel the entire pass, he would not return until early morning, shortly before dawn.

But the situation was patently wrong. How could the delay be so great that Styliann still had not appeared? And if this was so, why had no word been sent? Never indecisive, Tessaya found himself torn. His senses screamed at him to wake every man and destroy the cursed mage the moment he appeared in the east. But his tactical brain begged him to play it softly and patiently. To wait for Styliann’s arrival and greet him with open arms. Let him place himself exactly where Tessaya wanted him.

The Lord of the Paleon Tribes looked to the sky for inspiration but found none. The air was still, silent and cool. He had come to a standstill close to the inn but resisted the urge to seek Arnoan’s advice. Besides, he knew what the old Shaman would say. ‘Bring the mage to me. Let me work my magic on him.’ But of course he had no magic. Only chants and potions, bones and books. Styliann could destroy him with a wave of the hand.

What should he do? He walked back up the main street to the gates of the town, climbing up the watch-tower that controlled them. The two guards bowed their heads at his appearance.

‘Keep watching,’ he said. They turned again to look at the empty black that was the entrance to the pass, illuminated to the right by the fire of the pass watch. ‘Has there been no sign?’

‘No, my Lord,’ replied one, unsure whether to turn or not and ending up awkwardly half faced towards Tessaya. ‘They have seen nothing down there and the paths to the north and south are both empty.’

‘What in all the hells has happened to them?’ demanded Tessaya.

Still unsure, the guard ventured a reply. ‘He is a mage, my Lord. Not to be trusted.’

Tessaya opened his mouth to slap down the guard, whose response was not required, but found himself in total agreement. Instead of barking, he nodded and relaxed just a little.

‘Yes. Why should I be surprised, eh? I’m glad to see you understand who we are expecting.’ He turned to go. ‘Be very vigilant. I cannot have this man loose.’

And then the entrance to the pass was engulfed in sudden violence.

Masked warriors surged into the night, scattering the watch-fire and slaughtering the guards, who plainly hadn’t seen them coming. The shouts of alarm were cut off so quickly. Without a pause, the warriors continued at a dead run and in their midst, a lone man on horseback, riding at a canter. The dread force surrounded him completely, the warriors moving easily at speed. There was no fuss, no struggle and no doubt. Only a frightening efficiency of pace and stride and a total focus. Not one glanced towards Understone as the whole turned north and ran up the trail, the bemused stares of the watch-tower guards following them as they ran quickly away.

Tessaya swore to break the hypnotism of the moment, slamming his fists down so hard on the tower rail that it shuddered beneath him, one timber cracking under the strain.

‘Wake the tribes!’ he yelled. ‘I want every man from his bed. I want this town empty and I want it now. Every warrior. I want those bastards caught and slaughtered. Move!’

Alarm bells rang out all round Understone. Tessaya stared after Styliann. It had to be him on that horse. Loose in the east with his damned masked warriors and heading straight for Xetesk. And even as he watched, a new chill stole over him. There went Styliann, but where was Darrick? And where were The Raven? He dismissed the new worry from his mind, knowing it would return once his fury had subsided. For now, he had but one target in his sights.

‘By the spirits of the Paleon dead, I will drink your blood, Styliann of Xetesk,’ he growled.

But as the clamour of the waking army engulfed his ears, he thought he heard laughter echoing from the mountains in the still night air.

And so it was for the next three days. The Council of Julatsa made the awful pilgrimage to the North Gate to see Senedai and the Wesmen murdering innocents. Sacrificing them on the altar of the DemonShroud. On the first day, a further hundred died, fifty at noon, fifty at dusk. On the second, three hundred met their deaths, many with the same proud face as the old mage, but more and more with reluctance, defiance and angry words shouted at the Council who watched them all and, in their eyes, lifted not a finger in their defence.

On the third day, that unrest had shifted within the walls of the College and with the sacrifice of one hundred and fifty older women at noon, the Council turned from the gate ramparts to find themselves facing an angry mob held at bay by Kard and a line of College Guards. Behind the steel defence, mages stood ready to cast ForceCones to fragment the crowd if necessary.

At the front of the crowd of perhaps two hundred were their appointed spokesmen and the soldier whom Kard had reprimanded at the first sacrifice. The General had succeeded in quieting them but the silence had a menacing quality, every eye on the Council. Kerela nodded.

‘Well, I suppose we had to expect this.’

‘This is hardly the time to talk to them,’ said Seldane.

‘There will be no right time,’ said Kerela. ‘Though I had hoped Kard’s talks would have a longer-lasting effect.’

‘I suspect those that listened to them are praying rather than demonstrating,’ said Barras. ‘We were never going to convince everyone. ’

‘What do they hope to achieve?’ asked Endorr. The junior Council member scanned the crowd nervously.

‘Well, let’s go and ask them, shall we?’ Kerela led the way down the stairs inside the gatehouse. As they emerged into the courtyard, a whisper went around the crowd. Kerela strode across the space and waved Kard and his soldiers aside. She stood, Barras at her left shoulder and the remainder of the Council grouped behind them, and looked solemnly into the faces of the frightened angry city folk whose friends were dying in increasing numbers outside the relative sanctuary of the walls.