They had assembled over the course of an hour but Dystran hadn’t watched. Tearing back into the study, he had grabbed the Articles of Stewardship from its place on the shelves by the desk and flicked feverishly through its pages. The Act of Giving was there, plain for him to read. But in his pride and overwhelming sense of achievement and importance at attaining his new position, he just hadn’t bothered to look.

The Lore script concerning the Act was the most modern in the College, written by Styliann and designed to make renunciation a long and complex process. By the time he had studied the text in enough detail, had gathered the Circle Seven and fulfilled the meditation process, eight days would have passed. And so the Articles lay at his feet, an open page fluttering in the gentle night air.

‘We’ve got to stop them,’ he muttered.

‘What do you intend doing?’ asked his senior confidante, an ageing, grey-haired mage named Ranyl.

‘We can WardLock the gates for a start.’ Dystran waved a hand in their direction.

‘And they will merely batter the timbers to splinters,’ said Ranyl. ‘No holding spell is strong enough to keep them all quiet and they will respond to aggression by attacking the source of the order to strike or cast. And that’s you.’ The old mage’s voice was quiet but sure. ‘There are four hundred and seventeen Protectors down there, all with innate magical shielding. I know who I’d back in the fight.’

‘So what can we do?’ Dystran’s voice held a note of desperation.

‘Let them go and rescind the Act of Giving. Or send an assassin to kill Styliann. Those are the only two ways to bring the Protectors into your control.’

Dystran snorted. ‘An assassin? Styliann’s soon going to have five hundred-odd Protectors around him. The whole Wesmen nation would have trouble getting to him.’

Ranyl stooped and picked up the Articles of Stewardship and slapped them into Dystran’s chest.

‘In that case, my Lord, might I humbly suggest that you get reading?’

Below them, the Protector army moved on an unspoken command, coming to readiness absolutely as one. Dystran started, his heart thudding in his chest. Exuding power with every stride and swing of the arm, they trotted to the south gate, now under the gaze of the rudely awakened College. Dystran shook his head, his face taut with anxiety, seeing more than one questioning face turned up towards him and Ranyl.

At the gate, the lead Protector pushed the gateman firmly aside, wound the bar away and pulled open the heavy iron-clad wooden gates with assistance from three others. Without further pause, the Protectors trotted away into the dark streets of Xetesk, and Dystran could very easily imagine Styliann’s laughter.

Lord Tessaya watched tight-lipped as Styliann and the dread force ran to the north while his warriors struggled to form under the harsh shouts of his Captains. He summoned his highest ranking General, a man named Adesellere.

‘I want four thousand men after them before dawn cracks the sky. Do not let them escape. I want word sent through to Riasu for five thousand of the reserve to be here in one day. He should also be advised to attend me immediately. Lastly, I want you to personally organise forward defence of Understone, the pass and the surrounds. Be mindful of the south.

‘I will be pushing on to Korina in two days’ time. See every commander has carrier birds. Do you understand all that?’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Adesellere, an old and trusted aide, battle-scarred, bald and fierce. ‘Do you want me to remain with the defence?’

Tessaya nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are one of the very few I can trust. Send Bedelao after the mage. I will get word to my scouts north and south. I get the uneasy feeling we’ll have to revise our plans. Not all of my brother Lords have acquitted themselves as they might.’

‘I won’t fail you, Tessaya.’

‘You never have before.’ Tessaya dismissed Adesellere. He looked out over the muster area into which the General now ran, barking out orders to his Lieutenants who drove the warriors into some semblance of order. This was not as he had planned and he cursed under his breath, bringing to his mind where it had begun to go wrong.

With the destruction of the Wytch Lords certainly but there was more. The attack on Julatsa had not been swift enough and to the south, disaster had apparently overtaken Taomi. The Eastern Balaians should have had no hope but the fact was that the Wesmen had failed to capture or kill a single targeted figure.

Unless his reading of the situation was completely cock-eyed, General Darrick, Baron Blackthorne and The Raven were all still alive and fighting. And now, unless they could catch him, Styliann would return to Xetesk as a standard for the mages. Tessaya’s hand was being forced and he didn’t like it.

What he needed was for Senedai to occupy the College Cities, for Adesellere to halt any advance from the south and for his march to Korina at the head of ten thousand Wesmen to be swift and without error. He could still take Korina. The bloated capital city wallowed in its sense of achievement and wealth and had little time for organised defence. Yes, there would be resistance but, with the Colleges and southern armies busy, he was certain he could prevail.

But it wouldn’t be the glorious march he had anticipated and dreamed, with the smoking ruins of the bastard Colleges behind him. And for that, he wanted someone to pay, and pay heavily.

Darrick’s flotilla of small and medium-sized craft had crossed over three quarters of the Bay of Gyernath when a shouted alarm reached him from the southern edge of the squadron. He quickly scanned the beach they were approaching but it was deserted, yet consternation fed through the boats to his right and he could see men, or more probably elves, pointing southwards.

He looked and could see nothing initially but then, as a nearby twin-masted craft cleared his line of sight, he saw them. Sails. Cruising around the Gyernath headland. First two, then four. All noise in his boat ceased as more and more eyes turned to stare at the fleet moving up the Bay towards them. As Darrick watched, he saw more sails rounding the headland, appearing like ghosts on the breeze. Silent predators, swift and deadly.

‘Gods under water,’ he muttered. He turned to his second-in-command. ‘I need the elves and mages to tell me who they are and I need to know fast. Go to it.’ The man strode away, shouting a name Darrick couldn’t catch. The General summoned his signalmen.

‘Flags for course change. North-north-east immediate. If those are Wesmen, we’ll need all the distance we can get.’

Messages were relayed as the flotilla changed course, heading for a more difficult shore. Almost immediately, the larger fleet of predominantly three-masted vessels altered its direction in response. They were gaining and fast. Pennants flew from the tops of masts and from each stern. He could see tiny figures in the rigging and, he thought, faces lining the decks. Thousands of faces.

They would barely make land before they were caught and still more ships came into sight. There had to be two dozen and more now. If they were Wesmen, the four-College cavalry was finished.

To Darrick’s left, a mage shot into the sky, ShadowWings shaped for height and glide. The General tracked her as she flew away south towards the approaching fleet, waiting to see the arrows fly high, trying to bring her down. Silence reigned. All that could be heard was the creaking of timbers, the ruffle of canvas, the push of bows through the water and the splash of oars. The mage continued on. Darrick realised he was holding his breath.

Three shapes rose on an intercept course from the lead ship; and they weren’t arrows, they were mages. A cheer went up all around the squadron and Darrick’s face cracked into a smile. The Wesmen had no mages. Whoever they were, they were friends.