Cheers went up around the northern ramparts, mages lost their concentration and all around the College faces turned and arms pointed. The Dordovans had arrived.

For a few timeless moments, there was no reaction from the Wesmen. Then, the sound of staccato orders rattled across the northern forces facing the College. Whole sections of the line detached, the Wesmen ordering defence by tribe and standard, their places taken by their fellows, the entire muster thinning. Those despatched to the rear headed away along the streets and an atmosphere of relief washed over the College just as one of consternation appeared to grip the Wesmen.

The Julatsans’ grim expressions were replaced by smiles and hope grew from the ashes of despondency. The College defenders roared on their saviours and, with the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting filtering across the city on the back of more and more arcing spells, Hirad had seen enough.

‘It’s got to be now,’ he said. He, The Unknown and Ilkar ran down the steps to the waiting party beneath the gatehouse. The Raven would ride behind a quintet of shielded mages and in front of two hundred foot soldiers. Swinging into his saddle, Hirad took in the others.

‘Ready?’ Nods asserted that they were. At a signal from The Unknown, the North Gate swung open.

‘Make it quick!’ he urged, ‘The Wesmen won’t stand around waiting for us.’

The small force rode out at a gallop towards the Wesmen who, clearly distracted by the attack to their rear, made no immediate move.

The two central mages loosed ForceCones that had been long in preparation. The twin spells battered through the Wesmen lines, hurling warriors to either side and driving the luckless to their deaths against buildings and piles of rubble where their bodies were flattened and torn to pieces. A heartbeat later, FlameOrbs arced away from the palms of the outrider mages to spread panic and scatter the sides of the cone-formed passage. The mages wheeled away, tracked by the fifth whose shield was not needed.

‘Raven!’ roared Hirad. ‘Raven with me!’

Keeping close form, The Raven sped into the gap, swords flailing to right and left, Ilkar’s HardShield over their heads and Denser and Erienne’s FlameOrbs splashing killing fire further to the sides. Only Thraun took no part. Hunched in his saddle, head down, he let his horse follow, its fear keeping it from straying.

Hirad, chopping the axe arm from an enemy, bellowed his delight at the rush. Flames rose to either side, Wesmen careered in every direction, his horse threatened to bolt at each stride, yet through the line they went. Hurled stone, axe and timber bounced from Ilkar’s shield, The Unknown’s sword flashed light and blood as it hacked a passage and The Raven tore through the chaos, breaking through the line to a cheer from the walls of the College, audible even with the shouts of the Wesmen ringing in their ears.

To their left, the Dordovans advanced, the well-marshalled column defended by mage fire, mage ice and three thousand swords and shields. The College had sent an élite.

Hirad made to join the attack, seeing the chance to inflict more suffering but The Unknown would not let his horse yield to the barbarian’s pressure to turn.

‘Not this time, Hirad,’ he shouted. ‘This is one fight we have to leave behind.’

And, with the running remnants of the Wesmen siege force ignoring or avoiding them on their way to join the last battle for the College of Julatsa, The Raven galloped through deserted back streets and out onto the trampled, muddied green of the open mage lands.

Noon. And on the walls beyond the Long Rooms, the defence broke, Wesmen pouring on to the ramparts through the breach. Below, a back-up team of Julatsan guard raced up the stairs, yelling defiance, charging headlong into the enemy, allowing those around them the time to regroup.

Across the courtyard, men, women and children ran in all directions carrying the wounded away from the battle, shipping water to the dozen fires that crackled where Wesmen flaming rounds had fallen, and carrying wood, weapons and food to the defence.

From the Tower, Kard’s flagmen passed orders from the field Captains while the General himself strode the walls, his words boosting morale and his sword running with Wesmen blood. And at six points stood a Council member, directing spell offence, maintaining shields and simply being visible. All but Endorr, who was conscious but helpless.

Outside the confines of the College, the Dordovan force, while deflecting significant attention from the beleaguered Julatsans, had not reached the walls. Their progress, halted for over three hours, was grindingly slow and every passing moment brought the fall of the College inexorably closer.

The Raven’s escape, half a day previously, had raised the hopes of Balaia as a whole but Julatsa was paying the price.

Barras orchestrated a barrage of HotRain which fell among the Wesmen attacking the north gate, scattering those not too damaged to run. He was desperate for some respite but, under a near cloudless sky, the fog of battle assaulted his every sense. The clash of weapons, the thud of catapults, the shouts of orders, the cries of children and the screams of the terrified, the wounded and the dying battered his ears. Colour flooded his eyes, a mist of ash and blood filled the sky, myriad weapons glinted in the sunlight, the ramparts and wall caps ran red, standards moved in the throng clamouring to gain the walls, flames sprang from the ground and the light of attack spells flashed and seared across open spaces around the College.

He could taste and smell fear and power, sweat and blood; he could feel the pain of every Julatsan who died and the desperation in all those that yet lived. They were not stopping the Wesmen and every invader that died made no dent in the mass still to come.

Despite their spirit, their spells and their obdurate strength, the Julatsan rearguard was simply not big enough and the Dordovans’ failure to break the Wesmen lines and reach the College would surely prove fatal.

As he watched, a shout rang out to his right. Thousands of Wesmen were pouring into the square in front of the North Gate. Beyond them, the dust of the Dordovan battle still filled the air but something was wrong. Next to Barras, one of his mages sat in the lee of the battlements, accepting Communion. It was brief and at the end, she looked into Barras’ eyes and the tears in them told him everything.

‘The Dordovans are beaten,’ she said. ‘They’re retreating.’ Barras felt a knot tighten over his heart and fought to keep his despair from his face. He reached down and helped the woman up.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Don’t give up. We can beat them.’ But as he turned to give his next orders he knew Julatsa was all but finished.

Alerted by the warnings fed around the walls, Kard dashed to the North Gate, the sweat pouring from his tired body but his spirit unbowed. Shouting encouragement as he went, he arrived next to Barras, made his assessment and leaned close to the old elf negotiator.

‘This is it, my friend,’ he said. ‘When the time comes, I’ll take you to the Heart.’

Barras nodded. ‘But let’s delay that time as long as we can, eh?’

Kard smiled and began barking orders to his men, standing beside them as they fought to stave off the endless tide of Wesmen. With reinforcements flush with victory over the Dordovans, there came more ladders, a second battering-ram and an increase in the intensity of the battle.

In four places Wesmen had gained the walls, their ferocity driving back the defenders. Too close for spell assault, the walls had to be cleared by men alone and, as the Wesmen surged, it quickly became clear there weren’t enough.

Yelling for reserve teams, Kard flailed about him, his unmistakable frame and voice a rallying point for his men. In tandem, Barras and his mages poured FlameOrb and HotRain on to the clamouring masses waiting below. But while the death toll was awful, they merely regrouped and came again.