‘Ahead,’ whispered Denser. ‘Skirt Dystran’s tower to the left; we’re headed for the curtained passage to the left of the dome doors.’

The Unknown led them out, his footsteps muffled by the cloth still wrapped around his boots but torn and wearing thin. The marble would give them away if it could. So would his breathing, the creak of his armour, the heat from his body or the call of his soul. Gods, he was prepared to believe anything would. The trouble was, if one Protector was near enough, they would be discovered through him.

A knife was in his hand now and he indicated to Hirad to keep an eye right while he took left, knowing those behind him were doing the same. It was a walk that went on forever beneath Xetesk’s most secure quarters. Every pace could bring doom so quickly. Each footfall might reveal those that surely waited for them.

The Raven crept gradually around the base of Dystran’s tower. Pace by pace, their target passage was revealed and, inch by inch, he began to believe they would reach it without incident.

Footsteps. Echoing. The direction hard to tell but the sound was growing. The Unknown clenched his fist. The Raven stopped, the Al-Arynaar half a pace slower. Rebraal’s bow tensed. Hirad gestured left, the other side of the tower. The Unknown nodded, pointed either side of the tower and shrugged. Hirad shook his head. Denser pointed left and raised his eyebrows. Mouthed ‘trust me’, and began to edge back the way they had come. Right now they were visible from the dome doors. Whichever way the enemy came around the pillar, that was bad.

The footsteps were from more than one person, walking briskly, and clearly now from one of the tower entry passageways. The Unknown locked eyes with Rebraal. He nodded his readiness. All they could do now was to wait.

Men came into the dome. The muffling of the echoes gone as a curtain was pulled aside. The footsteps clattered across the marble, steelshod toe-caps and heels tapping out counter-rhythms. Soldiers. That was something.

There were two of them. Cloaked, helmets under one arm and marching purposefully towards the dome doors. They were talking, one plainly disagreeing with the other. The Unknown recognised the profile of the older one. The younger, the angrier one, he didn’t. He held up a hand, putting it in front of Rebraal’s arrow. The Raven watched the men through the doors, which opened and closed for them, the guards on the outside not looking in as they pulled the slick-hinged and counterweighted halves together.

‘Well, well,’ whispered The Unknown. ‘Still alive.’

‘Who?’ said Hirad, voice dead quiet.

‘Suarav,’ said The Unknown. ‘Must be the oldest soldier on the staff if he trained me, eh?’

‘And the other was Chandyr,’ said Denser. ‘Reporting to Dystran, the pair of them no doubt. Well, Raven, that’s the heads of defence of city and college introduced.’

‘I could have had them,’ said Rebraal, bowstring relaxed once more.

‘Not both of them and not without risk,’ said The Unknown. He stared squarely at Hirad. ‘We aren’t here to kill unnecessarily. Come on. We’ve work to do.’

For Ranyl, rest was elusive. A new pain had been growing just beneath his ribs above his stomach and he feared that very soon even the thin soups he was currently able to take in would prove too much.

Now, even his familiar was asking him to submit to spells to numb the agony. He had seen the referred pain in the creature’s eyes but was still determined that he would not allow others to cast on him that which he could not cast himself.

Having abandoned all hope of sleep, Ranyl had retreated to his most comfortable and supportive upright chair. His familiar had added logs to the fire, before curling up in his bed as a feline to sleep. Burrowing under the covers for warmth, his vitality was fading as his master slipped slowly away.

Ranyl knew he wouldn’t be seeing too many more dawns. It was an abiding sadness. From his highest balcony, he had seen the most spectacular fire-red dawns when the season was right. But autumn was more than a lifetime away.

Perhaps worse, though, was that he was unlikely to see the outcome of the war or the final fruition of either the elven or dimensional researches. He allowed himself a smile. Good of Dystran to give him so much involvement. Further sign if it was needed that Dystran had become a worthy and wily Lord of the Mount. After all, he had only allowed Ranyl access to such potential influence in Xetesk after discovering early that the cancer would be terminal.

Before Ranyl had, in fact.

Still, at least he would witness the first use of the adaptable dimensional magics gained from the understanding of the ageing Al-Drechar and the dragon, Sha-Kaan.

And there was another regret. How he would have loved to have met them, elf and beast alike. Again, though, he conceded he should really be grateful. He had, after all enjoyed a key decision-making position in these central affairs.

He must have dozed off momentarily because he felt the cool air on his face without seeing the door to his bedchamber open and close to admit whoever it was who had come to see him. He sighed and opened his eyes, his vision swimming slightly as it always did. Another messenger, was it? Or perhaps Dystran. That would be comforting. He had a sudden urge to know what was going on and how the hunt for the elven raiders went.

The room was darker. It was because two figures were standing in front of the fire. He could sense others in the room too but he focused on the nearest. Strange there should be so many and he felt a menace that unnerved him.

‘Our apologies for disturbing you, Master Ranyl,’ said one, the smaller of the pair. He could make out a beard but the finer features were still blurred. The voice he recognised but couldn’t place. At least it was human, not elven and he felt himself relax. He blinked and his vision cleared further.

‘But we have messages to pass to you and the Circle Seven, and we have information to collect and you know where it is.’ This was the other man. Huge, shaven-headed and deep-voiced.

Ranyl’s calm deserted him. He knew these men. And a glance told him he knew nearly all in the room. His bedchamber. His heart was racing and pain flared in his stomach.

‘Dear Gods burning, how did you get in here?’

Chapter 18

The TaiGethen fanned out from the base of the stairwell and ran across the ground floor. Two cells, six elite hunter-warriors armed with short blades, jaqruis and bows. Silent through the grid of shelves and cases, feet caressing stone, wood and carpet, their eyes missing nothing.

The Al-Arynaar mages walked in their wake, drinking in the mass of Xeteskian knowledge all around them, calm in the certainty that while the TaiGethen hunted in front of them, they had nothing to fear.

Auum ran at their head, with Duele and Evunn to his left, flitting in and out of his peripheral vision between the shelves. Marack and her cell mirrored them to the right. As on the upper floors, they expected to find no one. Their sweep took them through the desks and tables and all the way to the doors closed against the night and a threat that had already bypassed them.

Auum paused at the doors and the TaiGethen gathered about him. The library was a welcome change from the city outside and its filthy cloying odours. The air smelled of ancient paper, treated wood and the mustiness of age, mixed with traces of lantern oil. He breathed it in deeply before he spoke, voice low.