Blades flashed in the sunlight, crashing into the Wesmen’s stout defence. Axe and sword fell remorselessly as the Protectors forced the pace, their onslaught withering and awesome. The clatter of weapon on shield, the dull thud of blade on body, the sparking clash as metal found metal; all drifted over Styliann on a cloud of Wesmen blood. Three more times, at Cil’s request, he launched devastating FlameOrbs into groups of archers or individual bowmen. Three times, fire washed the sky. Three times, the acrid smoke rose to mingle with the dust and the blood.

The Wesmen were brave and resolute and Styliann admired their spirit while pitying the futility of their action. And they didn’t simply queue up to die. From the rear of their lines, more than five hundred broke ranks to skirt the battlefield, aiming to flank the Protectors. Watched all the way by the scouts concealed left and right, they were met by a force of the Xeteskian warriors who peeled from the line to confront them before they could pose any threat to Styliann.

Even that didn’t deter them. Ultimately, it was the Protectors’ defence that broke their morale.

The battle had raged for well over an hour and the Protectors had maintained their steady, silent advance, walking through the bodies of the Wesmen, never looking down to find their feet, each pace sure and certain. Those behind the fighting line directed movement, leaving them free to focus on attack, while others stooped to pull fallen brethren from the carnage.

It was a hopeless task for the Wesmen. Even when a Protector fell, their line was never in danger of being breached. Almost before the warrior had hit the ground, another was in his place, completing the defensive net.

Each Protector attacked without a flicker of a glance to his flanks. And while his sword or axe drove at his latest opponent, his chosen second weapon blocked and parried both strikes to his own body and those of the brother next to him; all directed by the soul mind whose conscious strength lay in Xetesk and whose eyes looked from five hundred faces. They missed almost nothing, gave the Wesmen no consistent target, and any hope that flickered was snuffed out by the turn of a blade at the critical moment.

Styliann saw the end. To the right of the battle line, the Wesmen mounted a desperate push. Spearmen jabbed between the sword and axemen, adding a new dimension to the fight. They roared their battle cries, summoned every ounce of spirit and hurled themselves forward.

Instantly, and almost imperceptibly, the Protectors responded. The slightest closing of their ranks, the merest quickening of their strike rate, the smallest increase of the defensive response. Wesmen axe and sword found nothing but steel; spear thrusts were caught in the gauntleted hands of the second-line Protectors, their wielders dragged to their deaths. Bodies dropped, the wounded screamed, and blood ran over the feet of those still standing. In a matter of moments, the Wesmen effort to break the Protector line was reversed, the Xeteskians punched a hole in the enemy defence and their order broke and scattered.

Across the battle front, they turned and ran, the orders of their captains ignored, the belief gone and their spirit broken. The Protectors made no move to give chase, merely standing and watching them go.

Styliann laid a hand on Cil’s shoulder. The Protector turned smartly to him.

‘You may take the masks from the dead. But be quick with your rituals. We must be back in Xetesk before nightfall tomorrow. There is much to be done.’

They’d found Thraun curled by the foot of Will’s bed. The infirmary staff hadn’t dared to move the big blond warrior, instead throwing a blanket over his nakedness to give him some warmth and dignity.

And that was all they could do for him because flooding through the doors had been Julatsa’s wounded and dying. Every bed was occupied; dark red had joined the light colours of the infirmary, and the wails of pain and fear mixed with the clatter of buckets, the whispering of mages, the urgent shouts of the tenders and the running of feet in every direction.

Will had lain in the bed, his face covered by a sheet, waiting for The Raven to take him and honour him, the area around him and Thraun a pool of sad quiet in the hubbub of the infirmary. There had been a Vigil but no burial. Victims of the siege were to be stored in the cellars beneath the Mana Bowl, where it was cool and dry and the air heavy with incense.

Now, with Thraun lifted on to the empty bed and left to sleep, his eyes dark hollows, his mouth moving soundlessly, framing words of grief and anguish, tears squeezing from his eyelids, The Raven took time to sit and talk in a quiet chamber in the Tower. Outside, the Wesmen gathered their forces, brought up their towers and catapults and prepared to attack, while in the skies above the sun shone down, an inappropriate warmth and freshness drifting over Julatsa.

Hirad took them all in, knowing their first action should be to sleep all day. They had had no rest since Sha-Kaan’s arrival, had fought almost constantly and Ilkar and Erienne, he was sure, were both spent as far as casting was concerned. Of Denser, he wasn’t so sure. The Xeteskian appeared relatively fresh and alert, his pipe, as ever, clamped between his teeth. But his eyes had that distant look that Hirad didn’t much care for. Like he was thinking greater thoughts than those in his company should be allowed to share. Still, it was an improvement on the sullen disinterest he’d shown since leaving Parve.

‘Will’s death triggered his change back, I presume,’ said Ilkar. Erienne nodded.

‘Had to be,’ said The Unknown. ‘But I think such speculation is not the best use of our very limited time.’

‘We need to try and understand or we won’t be able to help him,’ said Erienne.

‘Yes, but we’ve got significant problems, other than Thraun, that I am afraid some of us seem to have overlooked in the recent excitement,’ said The Unknown, his tone forbidding any interruption. Hirad almost smiled but quashed it. Denser and Erienne wouldn’t have seen him like this, not really. This was The Unknown he needed. The calm assessor and practical planner as well as the colossal warrior.

‘We came here to find Septern’s texts; let’s not forget that. But we don’t know how long the College can hold out against the Wesmen. The task is further complicated by the fact that part of the Library is now in the Heart below us. We have no idea how long the search will take and Barras cannot spare us many, if any, mages from the College defence.

‘We will have to play our part in securing the College from the Wesmen, not least to give ourselves time enough to search the Heart and Library.

‘We also have to tend to Thraun until he is fit enough to travel and, when we have what we came for, we have to get out of Julatsa whether the siege is over or not. The rip widens daily. It will not wait for us and we’ve already been delayed too long. If the measurements are correct, we have only seven days to close the rip and the only gateway we know of is three days’ ride away at least.’ He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink.

‘But look at us, Unknown,’ said Hirad. ‘We can’t fight or cast effectively right now. We’re all shattered. The first thing we need is rest.’

‘We’ve made something of a rod for our own backs, haven’t we?’ said Denser, applying flame to his pipe. ‘It was a heroic rescue but they’ll merely expect more of the same.’

‘Well, thanks for that incisive contribution,’ said Ilkar. ‘Any other words of wisdom you’d care to share with us?’

‘I just felt it needed saying,’ said Denser with a shrug.

‘It makes no difference what people expect,’ said Hirad. ‘The Raven do what The Raven have to do. And what we have to do now is rest. I don’t want to see any of us on the ramparts today unless there’s a breach, which is something I doubt.’