A calm came over Hirad. He smiled and faced the enemy. Beside him, Ilkar’s low intonation stopped and he spoke the command word. The ForceCone, invisible and impenetrable, hurtled towards the advancing Wesmen.

‘HardShield up,’ said Erienne.

‘Ilkar is secure,’ added Denser.

Numerical superiority belatedly overcame fear of magic and the Wesmen charged, angry yells spilling from their lips, axes and swords catching the first rays of morning light. But a mere handful of paces in, the charge was abruptly blunted as the leading warriors smashed into Ilkar’s ForceCone which barricaded the street so effectively.

Wesmen bounced from its invisible surface, stumbling back and sprawling, those behind them, not willing to believe what their eyes showed them, hurdling their prone comrades only to discover the truth as noses were bloodied and axes sprung from hands.

Bewilderment replaced anger for a while as confused men picked themselves from the ground, gathered up weapons and moved cautiously forward again, hands outstretched, until they encountered Ilkar’s barrier.

Hirad watched them with a kind of detached amusement, confident in both the Raven mages’ spells. The Unknown, he could sense, was monitoring the square behind them, his eyes no doubt assessing defence of other entrances and his mind calculating when the time would be right to run.

In front of Hirad, the Wesmen quickly appraised their problem. A few ineffectual strikes against the Cone did nothing but risk sprained wrists and the arrows loosed bounced or snapped on impact, springing back towards the rapidly growing force behind.

The archers switched their attention to the boundaries of the Cone, testing its height by sending arrows up at ever steepening angles until they cleared its upper edge, plunging down merely to bounce from Erienne’s HardShield, choking off the fledgling cheers of the Wesmen. They fell silent and dropped away a couple of paces. They knew they were up against magic they couldn’t penetrate but knew also that they had one last weapon. Time. No spell lasts forever.

Hirad checked The Raven. Ilkar and Erienne were deep in the maintenance of their spells. Denser stood with a hand on Erienne’s shoulder, his eyes open but unfocused, monitoring the castings. The Unknown had backed up a few paces to get a clearer view of the square in its entirety. He was frowning but not scowling. Things weren’t critical.

So Hirad turned back to the enemy, watching their growing frustration. He caught the gaze of a Wesman warrior. He grinned broadly. The man had a smear of blood on his face and the skin of his knuckles was broken though he gripped the shaft of his axe hard. His eyes, dark and brooding under heavy brows, stared from a square face pocked by weather and skirmish. Thin lips, large ears and a mass of unruly hair framed his scornful facial cast. Hirad cocked his head, let his expression harden, then straightened his posture.

‘Think you can take me?’ he asked. The Wesman, apparently with a rudimentary grasp of eastern dialect, nodded. ‘Know who I am? Know who we are?’ No response. ‘We are The Raven. We are your nightmare. We are your death.’ Borrowed words but the Wesman wouldn’t know it. Hirad saw him shift his stance and retake the grip on his axe.

‘Must you?’ asked The Unknown, at his shoulder once again. ‘They’ll only run faster.’

‘Not fast enough. What’s up?’ Hirad saw The Unknown chewing his lip.

‘There aren’t enough mages in the square. The Wesmen are peppering arrows where they know we have no shields. It’s only a matter of time before one of the Cones goes down.’

‘And the prisoners?’

‘They’ve cleared the square but it’s slow going. And there’s fighting further up the secure corridor.’

‘How long do you think we’ve got?’ asked Hirad.

‘How good are the Wesmen archers?’ replied The Unknown.

Good enough.

A roar echoed through the square. Moments later, the first of the Julatsan guardsmen sprinted past The Raven’s position, heading north.

‘If we stay, we’ll die,’ said Hirad. In front of him, the Wesmen tensed, ready.

The Unknown nodded and leaned into Ilkar.

‘Ilkar, we have to leave. When I squeeze your shoulder, drop the Cone and run. Don’t look back.’ Ilkar’s reply was a slight nod of the head. Denser relayed the same message to Erienne.

‘Ready, Hirad? Denser?’ The Unknown took in their curt acknowledgements, placed a hand on Ilkar’s shoulder and squeezed. The Raven’s Julatsan punched his hands outwards and the Cone shot into the unsuspecting Wesmen before dissipating, knocking a dozen from their feet and causing momentary disarray. It was all the gap the Raven needed.

‘Run!’ yelled Hirad. And The Raven ran, Denser snatching the slower Erienne into his arms and springing into the air on load-bearing ShadowWings. Tearing left into the square, Hirad looked right to see a wave of Wesmen forging into the open space and, in front of them, a handful of Julatsan warriors and mages desperate to escape the deluge.

Ahead, the column of ex-prisoners, all pretence at order gone, stampeded towards the College while at either side of them city and College guardsmen fought grim battles with Wesmen determined to close the pincer.

The Raven trio, under Ilkar’s running HardShield, took up rear station on the chase. Above them, Denser swooped in again and again, Erienne scattering HotRain to disrupt the Wesmen charge and buy precious time. And as they approached pockets of defence at entry points to the corridor, The Unknown or Hirad barked the order to disengage to the Julatsan guard.

They gained on the prisoner column quickly, the walls of the College looming large. Great sheets of magical fire sealed the path to the south gates across the cobbled space in front of the ancient school and, mercifully, hid the mounds of bodies that rotted and stank where they lay.

They were close to sanctuary, so very close, when the last alley defenders buckled under the weight of Wesmen numbers and the enemy spilled into the street, their weapons flailing around the terrified city folk.

‘Denser, block that entrance!’ roared The Unknown as he upped his pace towards the break that threatened to trap them. Hirad swore and plunged into the crowd, his sword slashing the spine of a Wesman whose axe had bitten into the skull of an old man, killing him within sight of safety.

The Dark Mage and Erienne flew over his head. HotRain fell, this time a downpour, a curtain of flame drops, orange, red and white splashing over stone, brick and body.

To Hirad’s left, The Unknown, his momentum giving him great strength, picked up a Wesman with one hand around his neck and hurled him from the scattering crowd.

‘Run. Get to the doors. Now!’ he yelled. Behind them, the Wesmen army poured up the street, showers of arrows clattering off walls and pouring down into the fleeing Julatsans. Hirad chopped the thighs of another Wesman, stooped and picked up the child who had stumbled at his feet and ran, the shouts of the enemy firing into his ears.

‘Go! Go!’ he shouted and Ilkar dropped the HardShield and chased ahead, The Unknown just in advance of him. Over their heads, spells from the ranks of Julatsan mages arced out, fire, ice and hail tearing into the storming Wesmen army, whose charge slowed and stopped where their men were cut down by the magic against which they were helpless.

‘Close the gates,’ called Hirad as they neared and the gatemen obliged, The Raven squeezing through the gap they left. The great iron-bound wooden gates clanged shut, WardLock fizzed across the wood and the last arrows thudded in harmlessly, their impact muted by the thick timbers.

Hirad set down the child who clung to his leg bawling, his mouth wide, terrified, eyes streaming tears. The Raven warrior wiped and sheathed his sword, feeling the gazes of his friends on him, their mouths turning up, smiling through their gasps for breath. He shrugged and patted the boy ineffectually on the head. The volume of his cries increased.