Hirad’s blades cut and slashed through body after body, catapulting the light creatures through the air on the arc of every blow. His forearms blocked and smashed noses, claws and ribs, sending shrieking demons back to where they came from. And his feet stamped and kicked, crushing, dashing and shattering the enfeebled bodies which didn’t die but which disappeared.

But on they forged, to scrabble at his leather, catch on to his flailing arms, nip at the top of his skull and tug at the soles of his boots. And where they touched his flesh, fire and ice struck pain throughout his body. He roared his anger and upped the pace of his movement.

Beside him, Will’s breathing was too fast and the frightened grunts that accompanied every strike he made sent shivers up Hirad’s spine. The barbarian spoke while jabbing and weaving with his daggers at the onrushing demons.

‘Will, breathe deep. Focus on your targets, ignore the pain. They can’t kill you if they can’t reach your eyes.’

‘There’s so many of them,’ gasped the little man.

‘And every one you force away is one less.’ Hirad thrashed his left-hand dagger through a line of four chittering demons, their yelps following them back to their own dimension.

Behind him, Sha-Kaan breathed tight fire through either nostril or from between his teeth, each jet searing a demon while his claws flashed in the firelight and his tail kept up a whip defence above the unmoving mages, battering wave after wave of demons aside. His every movement was measured and every breath targeted to cause maximum damage with maximum efficiency.

Not so, Thraun. The wolf, plainly in distress at the alien bombardment, whimpered low in his throat, chasing his tail, his head flashing left and right, dragging his body round and round. His jaws clashed at air, his paws lashed out in any direction and all the time he kept an eye on Will, a frown deep in his furred brow.

The attack increased in intensity. More and more of the demons crowded into the space.

‘Hold them off; we are winning the battle,’ said Sha-Kaan.

‘Winning?’ Hirad gasped as he struck out with feet and blades again. The demons were everywhere. They crawled on his legs, bit at his leather, swarmed near his head, clawing at his scalp. The Unknown, never given to exclamation, gasped as his bare arms suffered bite and scratch, Hirad imagining the fire and ice shooting through his limbs and seeing the blood that ran freely from them. And Will had all but stopped fighting. He was covered in pale blue, his arms over his head and, near him, Thraun howled and batted at the attackers of his friend while his hide was pierced again and again and his rear legs quivered under the weight of his foe.

Sha-Kaan lashed a broad swathe of fire to his right and away from The Raven, while his tail jabbed and swatted. But his great gold hide was covered with blue and his shaking body failed to dislodge the tenacious hellspawn.

‘Keep going Raven, keep going!’ yelled Hirad, his arms whistling around his head, the pain in his legs ignored, his daggers cutting and chopping the enemy from the air.

But now the press was from below too and demons placed hands on the defenceless mages. The Unknown shouted a warning and dived under the whipping tail of the dragon, pulling the squealing, chattering, laughing creatures from the trio whose chanting kept them still one pace from death. While the Cold Room still maintained its integrity, The Raven had a chance. But even with it, the fight was nearly over.

Will screamed. The demons were at his face.

‘No!’ shouted Hirad. ‘Get away from him you bastards!’ He threw himself at the little man, bearing him to the ground, his daggers forgotten as he, like The Unknown, dragged demons from the body of a Raven man. Taking his lead, Thraun’s jaws snapped in and out, crushing the small bodies in his powerful jaws.

‘Sha-Kaan!’ shouted Hirad over the tumult in the Cold Room. ‘We have to get out. Now!’

‘A little longer,’ said the dragon, his voice choked and distant somehow. ‘We can win this. We have to.’

But Hirad felt them at his neck and tearing at his clothes to reach the skin they could hurt and knew he was wrong. The Raven would soon be gone.

Endorr’s body lay still on the floor of the Heart, crumpled into an untidy foetal position, hands clamped to his head, one knee up, the other leg splayed. A line of drool ran from his mouth and blood dripped occasionally from his nose. At least he was alive.

All this, Barras saw from a detachment of his conscious mind while the main thrust of his thought held sway in the increasingly futile fight to keep the crown from disintegrating.

The demons sensed victory and their taunts ripped at the armour of his willpower. The mana howled around him, flooding his mind with its stream, loosening his hold on the construct the Council had to maintain, and roaring in his ears behind the chiding laughter.

All around the circle, the strain was evident. Sweat, tears, frowns, grimaces and tense, over-tense, bodies created a living model of despair and imminent defeat. And on the ground, Endorr needed urgent help and there was nothing at all they could do for him. Gods, there was nothing they could do for themselves.

‘How long?’ gasped Seldane.

‘As long as it takes,’ said Kerela but they all knew that was not the question she had asked.

Barras felt a tear of frustration squeeze from his eye. They were trapped. Endorr’s shield had failed and they could not let go of the crown to cast a holding spell because the demons would not give them the time. Yet their hold could not last forever and, with the last of their mana stamina spent, the result would be the same as if they stopped right now.

And yet they couldn’t surrender to the demons. Not while there was the remotest chance that something from somewhere would serve to aid them.

Barras bit back further tears, this time of regret. For so long, he had looked forward to a gentle old age, cosseted in the loving embrace of the College he had served all his life. Then the Wesmen had attacked and he had managed to come to terms with his death as an heroic event in the defence of that self same College.

But this? This ignominious, futile and pointless end in a closed room far from fresh air and sunshine - an end that gave hope to no one and torment to all - this end was not fitting for an elf of his bearing, nor indeed for any of the Council. What they were on the verge of accepting as inevitable was not acceptable in any way, shape or form.

He raised his head from his chest, his vision still tuned to the mana spectrum, and began to knit threads back into the crown.

‘Barras?’ Strain took the power from Torvis’ voice.

‘I will be damned if I let those unholy ingrates walk my College and my dimension and I will not amble meekly to my own demise.’ He punctuated every word with a stab from his mind that knitted more of the frail structure together, feeling the strength of desperation flooding his body.

‘Great Gods in the ground, we aren’t helpless,’ grated Kerela. ‘Any of you who feel you can, let’s show these bastards who owns Balaia. If you can’t, hang on and don’t weaken.’ And she joined Barras, somehow reinforcing the structure and more, making it grow.

It was then that they noticed the change. So slight at first that it was all but imperceptible. But it grew by degrees; a drop in the intensity of the mana gale and a distraction in the voices of those who taunted and goaded. It would have been easy to claim the credit but Barras knew their renewed effort had nothing to do with it. Incredibly, the miracle was happening. Something, or someone, had diverted the demons.

‘This is the only chance we’ll get!’ Kerela’s voice, stoked with all its old authority, called the Council to action. ‘We’ve wasted enough of Kard’s valuable time, now let’s rid our city of this damned Shroud.’