‘It is assured!’ thundered Yasal. ‘The Kaan are now so desperate that not merely do they seek alliance with the weak water-dwellers but even bring Balaians to their aid. Do you really believe they can stand where you are failing? We will make ash from their bones before your very eyes and I will lead the Naik triumphant through the gateway while you lie dying on the ground, never to lift your wings again. We will drive the water from their oceans, tear down their puny towers and crack the fabric of their mountains. Any who survive will be food for my young. I will not stop until every insect in Balaia is dead. When I am done, nothing will grow, walk or fly there again.’

‘So much hate,’ said Sha-Kaan, his tone carefully measured. ‘So much venom that it blinds you. Since you have found me here, I offer for the final time. Cease your attacks and we will not pursue the Naik to destruction when the gateway closes.’

Yasal-Naik swooped in from his circle to fly alongside Sha-Kaan, his flat green eyes burning with contempt, his mouth unable to contain his drool which was whipped away from him in the winds.

‘The gateway will never close.’ His voice was a rasp in Sha-Kaan’s head. ‘Perhaps your age has defeated your mind at last. We have won, Great Kaan. All I am here to do is remind you that you preside over the demise of all your Brood. I am here to look upon the face of failure.’

‘Then fly to the ocean and look upon your reflection, Yasal. Tomorrow the gateway closes and the Naik will feel the wrath of the Kaan every cycle until they are no more. Take your escort and go. For all your might, you have not the courage to face me alone. You are small, Yasal-Naik, and your passing shall signal the moment when the Broods begin to respect the lands they so carelessly destroy.’

‘I will feast on your flesh myself,’ said Yasal. Sha-Kaan opened his mouth and roared his frustration, his wings beating hard, his body angling upward, taking him above his enemy.

‘Leave, Yasal!’ he cried. ‘Leave before I take us both from the sky. Dare not to trespass in Kaan space when the orb lightens the sky or face your death.’

Yasal summoned his escorts to him. ‘You are an old fool, Sha-Kaan. Pray to the Skies for your Brood and your melde. Before the orb sinks again, you will all be gone and the Naik will rule. Until tomorrow, Great Kaan.’ He turned and sped away, his escorts flanking him.

Sha-Kaan thought for a moment to give chase. To kill Yasal now would swing the battle around. But to die himself trying would seal the Kaan’s ultimate defeat. He roared again, this time blasting the air with fire, before dropping into the clouds and heading home.

Feint left, strike right, axe. Sword flat defence, midriff, axe overhead. Drop sweep, axe, sword head high, angle left defence. Half pace forward, sword drive, axe back right quarter, block low. Drop off, strap wound, space filled. Rest. Fast strike upper left quadrant, drive on axe, pace back. Hold.

Every strike sure, every move deliberate, even and accurate. The Protectors fought with a terrifying silent ferocity, their souls communicating at the speed of thought and their eyes interlocked, missing nothing. The thundering force of the Wesmen assault was met with steel and fist. Their roars and shouts with the clash of weapons and the thud of blade in flesh. And their shifting orders and tactics with measured strike and unyielding strength.

Brother fallen. Grieve for the body, comfort the soul. Prepare for uplift.

The waves of Wesmen broke time and again against the flashing metal barrier and blank masks, their numbers huge, their dead rising and their confidence ebbing and flowing, such that each single Protector kill transmitted through the whole army. But the Protectors fought far beyond their numbers. In ranks three deep, spaced to allow maximum use of weapons, they deflected attack after attack, resting and switching as the Wesmen lines fractured and reformed under the orders of their commanders.

And where the Wesmen bodies littered the ground packed too close to fight around, the Protectors simply waited while their comrades pulled them from the front, gore and blood slicks tracing their last journeys.

Aeb could respect the Wesmen energy but not their disorder in the fight. Each man fought alone or with just one or two others, leaving defensive holes to exploit and making block and thrust a long-term plan for defensive success. He had no idea how long they must hold, just that their Given had ordered them to do so. He and Sol whom they all held in awe. The Protector who became a free man again.

And all the while, the messages, advices, orders and warnings flooded through his mind, filtered for relevance or tagged for his attention. He struck the axe arm from a Wesman, blocked back a strike from his comrade and sent warning five left to Fyn whose flank defence was temporarily opened by a stun wound to Jal.

Lower quadrant axe sweep Aeb.

He responded automatically, feeling the axe clash against a Wesman weapon. Placing his sword to block forward he turned his gaze on the wide-eyed enemy who couldn’t hope to match his speed. He leaned in, smashed his elbow into the man’s face and brought his axe back up and right, feeling it bury in his midriff, lifting him from his feet. He shook the corpse off, his attention already on the warrior attacking his left flank.

Falling back, rear Manse elevation. Front rank rest, third to line. Weapons ready. Joining.

Aeb savaged his sword into an exposed neck.

It was mid-afternoon.

‘Balaia, let’s march!’ Darrick roared, swinging his sword arm in a wide circle over his head, and his desperate move began. Eschewing his horse in favour of walking at the head of the exclusively foot-borne army, Darrick nonetheless made himself as visible as possible. He knew that the Wesmen scouts would report back to Tessaya almost immediately and he wanted them all looking for him.

He’d been at pains to make his Captains understand that an attack could come at any time, at which point they were to scatter in centiles into the forest, heading for their allotted grid positions. They were not to engage on open ground unless absolutely necessary. Indeed, if the Wesmen stayed out, Darrick was happy to develop a stand-off. He had warned of the chaos of forest warfare and of the importance of continued communication along the fragmented front line. He knew it was a gamble but he considered it the only chance they had.

Darrick would have loved to have spoken to the assembled army but that luxury was denied him by the pressures of time and organisational necessity. Instead, he had impressed very hard on his command team the importance of that which they undertook. Once again, Balaia could not afford for them to fail. Once again, The Raven deserved their unflagging courage and energy. There was no sense in saving themselves for the next fight because failing in this one would mean there were no other fights. Not for them, not for the Wesmen.

The army set off in tight formation, mage assassin pairs ahead under CloakedWalks, searching for enemy scouts. In his heart, Darrick knew their task would bear little or no fruit but there was no sense in holding them back; and at the least, they would provide an element of early warning.

They were less than an hour from total chaos in Grethern Forest and he wanted to squeeze out any advantage he had. His regiments marched quickly along the main trail, making good ground towards the Wesmen camp a mile distant. They had travelled less than half distance when a roar like rising thunder grew ahead.

It echoed off the far crags, fell away down the gentle slopes into Grethern and hung above the rise they approached, like a cloud of sound. The Wesmen. And they were charging. Darrick heard the sound of running feet approach and two pairs of mage-assassins dropped their Cloaks and appeared near him.