They watched him as he picked his way up around the graves of the ancients, their heads unmoving, eyes not blinking. Sytkan was acutely aware of his frailty, of the ease with which either of these incredible creatures could snuff out his life.

He’d had no real idea of their size, their sheer domination of the space around them, until he got closer. And there they lay, like two huge golden sculptures. They were each a hundred feet and more long from nose to tail, the mounds of their bodies higher than his house and their stupendous wings folded back along their glittering scaled flanks.

Sytkan was less than thirty feet from them, his steps tentative and nervous, his nose full of their sharp wood and oil odour, when they moved. Heads as tall as he was swept out on long graceful necks and arrowed down on his insignificance. It was all he could do to stay standing.

‘Um . . .’ he began, and all his planned words fell from his memory. His eyes fixed on the upper fangs of the larger dragon as it opened its mouth. Dear Gods burning, those teeth.

‘I am Sha-Kaan, Great Kaan of my Brood. Nos-Kaan rests by me. And I understand from my Dragonene and friend, Hirad Coldheart, that you are Sytkan, mage of Xetesk. You and yours are here to find us a way home from this disagreeable dimension.’

‘I . . . Yes,’ said Sytkan. ‘I . . . That is, at least partially. And that’s why I - we - may need to ask you some questions. Is . . . um, will that be acceptable?’

The great dragon laughed. The breath blew Sytkan from his feet, the sound pounded around his skull and reverberated through ground and air.

‘It is expected,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘How else will you understand when you find Beshara?’

Sytkan got slowly to his feet and dusted himself down. ‘Beshara?’ he ventured.

‘Our home,’ said Sha-Kaan.

‘Sorry, of course,’ said Sytkan, never having heard the word before. His gaze locked on to Sha-Kaan’s, he saw deep into those bottomless eyes and the power they contained and his composure deserted him. ‘Well, I er, I came up here to introduce myself. I’m the leader of the Xeteskians and I assure you of our good intent as to wanting to work with you in the best way possible and is there a good or better or worse - if you see what I mean - time to talk to you?’

Sytkan gasped in a breath. Sha-Kaan regarded him for a long moment, the huge slitted black pupil narrowing very slightly. His eyes blinked slowly and he stretched his mouth. The mage fought the urge to turn and run.

‘Well met,’ said Sha-Kaan without hint of warmth. ‘Ask us what you will, when you will, though I suggest when we are landed is your best time.’ Sha-Kaan laughed at his own lame joke. ‘Now go, unless there is anything more?’

‘No. No, no,’ said Sytkan, relief flooding through him. ‘Thank you.’

He turned but had taken only one pace before he found himself staring at Sha-Kaan again, the dragon’s long neck curving away out of sight behind him.

‘Tell me, Sytkan,’ rumbled Sha-Kaan. ‘There are but two Al-Drechar and two Kaan dragons on this island. Yet to research and gather information you have brought with you thirty mages and a hundred Protectors. Perhaps you would like to explain.’

Sytkan felt cold all around his heart. ‘Well, there are many disciplines represented,’ he blustered. ‘Many strands to the research. The Protectors are merely—’

Sha-Kaan snorted derisively, dumping Sytkan on his backside again. ‘Do not presume to insult my intelligence.’ His head shot forwards, his muzzle stopping inches from Sytkan’s face. All the mage could see were scales, teeth and ire. ‘My flame ducts may be dry but these -’ he snapped his jaws meaningfully ‘- are in perfect working order. I will be watching you. All of you. Do not give me cause to become disappointed.’

Selik wanted to laugh out loud. Even though he’d ridden hard from Erskan and they’d stopped well after nightfall for only a few snatched hours of rest before setting off again at daylight, he hadn’t expected to sight his quarries until the following day at least. Yet there they were, no more than a couple of miles ahead on the trail, the dust of their passage clouding into the warm late morning.

They were heading north on the principal trail that led to the ruined town of Denebre and then on into the mage lands. A fertile part of Balaia, the landscape here, like so much of the country, had been ruined. Trees lay snapped or uprooted, farms were abandoned and fields lay unplanted or with the remnants of rotted crops still in the soil. It was a gently rolling vista, with shallow slopes and vales criss-crossed with a lattice of streams and rivers. To the west, the Blackthorne Mountains made up the entire horizon, their gaunt majesty punctuated only by the eastern face of the Varhawk Crags, scene of one of the most famous victories of the last Wesmen wars.

But Selik wasn’t concerned with the scene around him right now. He and his men had reined in at the top of a rise and were looking down onto a grassland plain. In the middle of it, a single covered wagon drove slowly on, the reason for the mages’ slow progress obvious. Despite Erskan’s assertion that he numbered mages among his friends, he hadn’t been over-kind to these, however many there were. The carriage was being dragged by a single, fairly small horse.

‘What’s your guess at the numbers in there?’ asked Selik of Devun.

The man blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, they’re very slow but it’s impossible to see what the horse’s condition is from here. I reckon they’re overloaded so, assuming there are two up front, there could be as many as four inside, plus baggage.’

‘That’s assuming there were ever that many mages in Erskan.’

Devun shrugged. ‘Best to assume more than less.’

‘All right.’ Selik nodded, then raised his voice to address all of them. ‘We’re going to assume there are six but I doubt there’s a warrior guard in there with them. You all know what to do. Let’s not rush and they may not hear us until it’s too late. It’s time to make another statement. Let’s go.’

There was precious little cover and they would be seen as soon as anyone looked back; and with no magical defence, they were open to spell attack. But there were fifty Black Wings, all of whom knew the dangers of attacking mages, and their tactic was simple.

Pushing on at just under a canter, they narrowed the distance quickly, the carriage ahead bumping and rattling over the uneven ground. Selik rode front and centre of the formless group, feeling a thrill through his body as they closed. This would be a blow for Balaia. A blow for the righteous.

Perhaps half a mile behind the carriage they were spotted. The back of the square-framed canvas covering twitched aside, and though he couldn’t hear it, Selik could imagine the shout of alarm and saw its result as the single horse was urged to a flat-out gallop.

The carriage began to pull away but Selik could see immediately that it wasn’t sustainable. Resisting the urge to up the Black Wings’ pace, he was content to follow, waiting for the carriage to slow when the horse spent itself and enjoying the desperation he knew they must be feeling. Even if they didn’t know exactly who was following them, fifty men on horseback were never going to be good news at a time like this.

A quarter of a mile behind and with the horse slowing dramatically, the carriage slewed to a halt across the trail in a cloud of dust. Figures leapt from back and front to kneel motionless. Casting.

It was to be expected. Selik signalled spread and gallop, circling his arm above his head and splaying gloved fingers wide. Behind him, the Black Wings picked up the pace, driving into a rough double-rowed crescent. The quartet at the points, his finest horsemen, nocked arrows into bows, steering their mounts with stirrup and thigh.