‘You don’t think they’ll expect us to advise, or just be there to raise morale?’ said Denser.

‘We’ve told Kard all he needs to know,’ said The Unknown. ‘We have to look after ourselves for now. Ilkar, what’s your condition?’

‘Not too bad,’ said the Julatsan. ‘I can replenish quickly here in the College. We all can, though Denser and Erienne have to modulate the flow they accept. It’s you, Hirad and Thraun who need the rest. I’m going to the Heart to start the search and I’ll sleep at night, Wesmen willing. If Erienne and Denser want to help, the Library will be open to them.’ Both mages nodded. ‘Good.’

‘Another thing before we break,’ said Hirad. ‘The Raven do not fight apart. I don’t want to see any of us fighting or casting alone. I for one, will not stand on the ramparts without the rest of you. We are The Raven. Remember that.’

‘You’ll never let us forget it,’ muttered Denser.

‘Still alive, aren’t you, Denser?’ snapped Hirad. ‘Think on why that is.’

Styliann had lost only twenty-three Protectors, an astonishing testament to the power and skill of the soul-linked army. He estimated that almost half of the Wesmen lay staring sightless at the sky and, before he left the battlefield, birds were circling over and walking among the dead, a fresh feast theirs for the taking. The rest of the routed army would report back to Tessaya and their terror would do more long-term damage than any blade.

The gates of Xetesk were closed to the former Lord of the Mount when he arrived, not that he was surprised. Dystran had few defences left and, he suspected, even fewer friends. As he rode towards the gates, the blustery, cloudy day drawing quickly towards dusk, Styliann reinforced the natural shield around his mind. He smiled as he felt the tendrils of a spell push at his barrier. They, whoever they were, had no hope of sundering the shield but he would have been disappointed had they not tried. To remain Lord of the Mount required consummate skill at protecting the mind.

Styliann dismounted and seated himself on a convenient grass-covered rise, around fifty yards from the gates and a stone’s throw from the main trail. There was a quickening of the pulse as he took in the dark-walled power of his beloved city.

To either side of the grand East Gate tower, with its ornate arched windows, multiple oil runs and three levels of reinforced ramparts, the dun-coloured walls ran away for over a mile, lost to sight as the dark closed in. Studded along their length with functional mage and archer turrets built in dark grey stone, the walls turned west for around a mile and a half before meeting the great west wall which faced the Blackthorne Mountains.

With deep foundations and internal buttressing, the walls, never less than fifty feet in height, sloped very slightly outward as they rose, overlooking an area of gently undulating grass and shrubland, cleared for over a hundred yards in every direction to provide defending mages with a clear field of vision.

And inside, Styliann could see the lights beginning to shine in the Towers of Xetesk. The sight saddened him more than he cared to admit to himself, his unwanted exile pulling at his heart.

With a hundred eyes staring at him from the walls and gate towers, Styliann considered the problems he faced in gaining entry to Xetesk. Guessing the next likely action depended very much on your point of view. The average Xeteskian guardsman looking out at their Lord of the Mount and the Protector army would be confused. The more enlightened would surmise political unrest on the Mount but none would know yet that there had been an attempted usurpation. Even Dystran was not fool enough to claim stewardship until he could parade Styliann’s corpse.

Inside the Mount, those few remaining loyal to Styliann would be working on a way to see him safely into the College, knowing that he couldn’t fly in without weakening his mind shield - an almost certainly fatal act. Presumably, they would be negotiating with Dystran and his aides, demanding audience for Styliann in controlled conditions, probably a Cold Room.

For his part, Dystran, because he was a dithering imbecile without the wit to govern, would be hoping in vain for some pre-emptive action from Styliann and his Protectors. Anything that would allow him to unleash magical offence with the blessing of the Xeteskian public. But even then he would have to exercise caution. Any aggression aimed at Styliann would trigger the Protectors and they could do significant damage to Xetesk and the College before they were stopped. All Styliann could do was wait. He wasn’t kept long.

Perhaps an hour after his arrival, and with a cool moonlit night giving Styliann’s quiet camp an eerie hue, the gate tower filled with archers and mages and the gate itself edged slightly ajar. One man stepped out. The gate closed. The archers and mages remained on station. Styliann rose to his feet and walked away from the warmth of his fire to approach the lone man, Cil at his shoulder, the rest of the Protectors bearing mute witness from a short distance.

‘Well, well. Dystran. I am honoured.’ Neither man offered a hand though Styliann had to admit some small respect that the new Lord of the Mount had chosen to meet him personally.

‘What is it that you want, Styliann?’ demanded Dystran, attempting to appear disinterested though the flicker of his eyes betrayed his nervousness.

‘Oh, just a bed for the night. I am but a weary traveller,’ said Styliann, his tone caustic. ‘What in all the hells do you think I want?’

Dystran flinched at Styliann’s sudden ire. ‘I cannot let you back in. The decision has been made. I am Lord of the Mount.’

Styliann’s lips thinned. ‘But I came back, didn’t I? You knew that I would.’

‘Once I knew you were still alive and in the East, yes,’ admitted Dystran.

‘Yes,’ said Styliann. ‘Unfortunate for you, wasn’t it?’

Dystran’s mouth tugged up at the corners. ‘A little.’

Styliann studied his face carefully, letting the silence grow.

‘At the present time you preside over very little,’ said the former Lord of the Mount. ‘An unrestrained rip eats at the sky threatening cataclysmic invasion from another dimension and only I and The Raven have the wit to try and search for an answer. The Wesmen are battering at the gates of Julatsa. They hold Understone and the pass and tens of thousands are poised to sweep towards Korina at will. And what have you and your supporters done in my absence?

‘Rather than conduct research to my instruction or organise serious defence and send soldiers to the battle for Julatsa, you have chosen to further your own personal ends. And how sorry they will look when the dragons are taking the Towers apart, brick by brick.

‘If you were half a man you would see that our dispute has to be set aside until the threats to us all are gone. Right now, I need access to the Library. The destination of the Stewardship is currently unimportant.’

‘The Library? Then you wish to do in Xetesk what we have so far failed to do and what The Raven are trying to do in Julatsa?’

Styliann tensed, his expression hardening. His eyes bored remorselessly into Dystran’s. ‘The Raven have reached Julatsa?’

Dystran nodded. ‘Contrary to your low opinion of our efforts, we are back in contact with Julatsa following the dispersal of their DemonShroud. It coincided with the rather extraordinary arrival of The Raven who apparently then released several thousand prisoners from a city swarming with Wesmen before setting to work on searching the Julatsan Library.’

Styliann laughed aloud, a reaction Dystran clearly wasn’t expecting.

‘Gods falling but they’re good,’ he said. ‘You have to hand it to them.’ The humour dropped from his eyes and face. ‘Tell me, how long have they been in Julatsa?’