‘My answer,’ said Sha-Kaan, a slight nod of the head accompanying his words, ‘is exactly as you should expect.’

Styliann’s smile broadened.

‘Oh dear Gods,’ breathed Hirad. What possessed him he didn’t know but he dived forwards, snatching Septern’s texts from Styliann’s arms, hitting the ground and rolling on to his back.

Twin gouts of flame blasted from Sha-Kaan’s mouth. Hirad’s abiding memory was of the smile disappearing from Styliann’s face as, in the instant before his destruction, he saw his death coming. His body was blown backwards, a mass of fire, his chest a hole where his organs had once been and his head blackened and scoured.

He landed thirty yards away, his torso separating from his relatively undamaged legs, his chest and face gone, a scattering of ash in the breeze all that remained.

‘Impudent human,’ said Sha-Kaan.

The Unknown helped Hirad to his feet, the barbarian’s legs shaking, so close had he come to being caught in the fire. Denser had a hand over his mouth, his face ashen, exuding the nausea they must all feel. His other arm supported Erienne whose breath came in shallow gasps. Hirad turned to Ilkar, the elf regarding him blankly, his head shaking gently from side to side, ears pricked and reddening.

‘I hope you can use these,’ said the barbarian, handing him the writings, parchments and books. ‘You know, to do something.’ He shrugged. ‘Something else.’

‘I will continue my preparation,’ said Sha-Kaan, all anger gone from his voice. ‘I expect your new solution presently.’

Ilkar opened his mouth to protest but Hirad shushed him with a quick hand gesture. ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘Come on.’ He led The Raven away. The trio of Protectors wandered over to stand above Styliann’s destroyed body, exchanging glances and looking over at The Unknown.

‘What about them?’ asked Hirad.

‘I really don’t know,’ said The Unknown. ‘But we have more pressing matters. Ilkar, Denser, Erienne, what options do we have?’

The other two turned squarely to Ilkar, who spoke.

‘We have one. We read about the theory in Julatsa’s library but dismissed it out of hand, particularly when Styliann arrived with so much more information. And thank the Gods you did what you did, Hirad,’ said Ilkar, tapping the texts.

‘So you can still close the rip and the corridor?’ asked The Unknown.

‘Technically,’ said Erienne.

‘It’s like this,’ said Ilkar. ‘We no longer have enough strength to cast as we intended. And we can no longer sustain the spell long enough to knit interdimensional space correctly.’

‘So what can you do?’ asked Hirad.

‘We can trigger a collapse,’ said Ilkar.

‘Excellent, so no problem!’ Hirad clapped his hands together but his confidence drained when he saw Erienne shake her head. ‘What?’

‘We can’t know what a collapse will do either here, in Balaia, or anywhere in between. It’ll cause ripples in interdimensional space and Septern is very clear on the potential risks of causing them. We could force dimensional realignment, we could tear the fabric of any or all dimensions, we just don’t know.’ Erienne pushed a hand through her hair.

‘But we don’t have a choice, do we? Sha-Kaan has seen to that,’ said Hirad.

‘No we don’t,’ agreed Denser. ‘But there’s one more thing. We have to be inside the rip to collapse it.’

The shock swept through them though they were far removed from him. For those on watch, it was like a tornado in the mind, reaving the promise from the subconscious and threading turmoil through the conscious.

For those at rest, it was a nightmare come to haunt. The removal of security in sleep and the awakening of anxiety. Moans escaped from two hundred pairs of lips.

Any Wesmen watching would have seen the physical symptoms but would never have guessed the cause. The watch-line swayed, free hands clutched heads, legs quivered and feet sought new purchase. And behind them, the rest stood, staring in every direction, not believing the reality so rudely thrust upon them.

The shock had passed in a few moments but the after-effects would rumble on.

Aeb rocked his head, trying to clear the muddle encasing his mind. He could feel his brothers, he would always feel them, but he could not feel their Given.

He is gone. We have failed. The thought chased itself across the Protectors’ minds, accompanied by an acute feeling of loss and a dissolution of purpose.

It is not our failure. Aeb urged his response into the cacophony of sending. We are resolute in our mission. We have not surrendered the Manse.

But as he said it, he realised the futility of their position. They were guarding the Manse for the return of their Given. He was now dead. Their response now was surely to return immediately to Xetesk. The Wesmen no longer needed to be fought or kept at bay but they were still there and would surely prevent any Protector move to leave.

Aeb felt the confusion flood the Soul Tank. They were trapped but with no reason or drive to fight. Yet fight they would have to, hoping for salvation from other quarters than their Given.

Sol. We can fight for Sol, came a random thought.

Aeb flared. Our goal is to survive until such times as we can return to Xetesk to await further Givings. He paused, aware that the flow of other thought had ceased. He was the only one communicating. He felt them all. We all respect and revere Sol. He was a brother Protector. He alone among men understands our Calling. But without our Given, we can only fight for ourselves. Each of you fight for his brothers. Hold that ideal in your soul and we will still triumph. Return to your positions. The night is not over.

But he wondered. He wondered at the break in the linkage the Given had provided them. Had they enough belief in their own right to survive alone to win? Dawn would give him his answer.

Darrick could see the glow of the fires of the Wesmen camp around Septern Manse an hour before they were within striking distance. Forward mage scouts were despatched to assess the strength of Senedai’s outer defence, only to return to say there was none beyond the camp perimeter, which completely encircled the Manse and its few fierce defenders.

A brief Communion with Izack’s forces set the attack time. They would both move in, half an hour after the Wesmen had resumed their fight with the Protectors, Darrick deciding that the noise of battle was the best cover for any surprise strike. He and Izack between them commanded a little in excess of six thousand men and mages. It still left them severely outnumbered, given Tessaya’s tribes in the vicinity, but it was not a straight stand-up fight; and Darrick, master of spoiling tactics against the Wesmen, felt it gave him the edge.

Darrick could still hardly believe his plan had worked thus far. Under a strict silence order, with weapons and armour tied down, the fittest elements of the remaining regiments had run out of the back of their encampment, traversed north three miles and turned east, heading over rough ground towards the Manse.

Under the sure eyes of elf-scouts and mages, they had covered their advance from any watching eyes, their intimate knowledge of the terrain allowing them to keep a high pace throughout the night, stopping for just five minutes in each hour.

Finally, they halted, an hour’s march from the Wesmen, in a shallow valley part-sheltered from the wind but not from the intermittent showers that still fell from a lowering sky. Darrick had personally toured every centile, thanking them all for their incredible effort and exhorting them for one more when dawn broke.

And now he sat alone with his thoughts, stretching the muscles of his legs. To sleep was fruitless with dawn so close but rest was vital for what could be a long day.