He felt the air playing over his face and couldn’t resist the temptation to touch his skin. It itched where the mask had rubbed and the soothing balms worked to stop infection. He traced the contours of his features, fascinated. The freedom to stand in the open and let the night see him was so alien and he couldn’t shake the thought that he would be struck down for experiencing it.

He wished the sensation was something he could enjoy. But the only enjoyment he had ever derived had been in sharing his consciousness with his brothers in the Soul Tank. That had gone forever. His soul was within him now. It had been the prayer answered but the price was a loss that dragged at the heart and left loneliness untamed in the mind.

Freedom to be as other men. He wondered what he would do with it and, for the thousandth time, sought contact with his brothers, only to find silence. He turned. Four stood behind him, hair blowing in the warm breeze, dark clothes and armour at odds with their unmasked faces. Faces that mirrored his confusion.

‘We have work, my brothers,’ he said.

They nodded. ‘We are one,’ they said.

They followed him back to the house. It stood stark against the deep of the night. The dragon, Sha-Kaan still sat on the torn roof, his great body still, his head inside, close to the surviving Al-Drechar. None came near her bar her elven servants.

They walked the corridors to the private rooms where blood had so recently been spilt. The dragon’s eyes bade them approach. He knew their minds and their desires.

‘I will accept only peace,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘There will be no more threat to Cleress or the family of Sol.’

The voice from the cavernous mouth brooked no dissension. He had killed to protect them already. He would not hesitate to do so again.

‘We will stand with you,’ said Ark. ‘We are one.’

‘I know your loss,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘But your gain is greater. Your brothers in my land enjoyed their freedom.’

‘Cil,’ breathed Ark, invoking the name of another who, like Sol, lived beyond the Soul Tank but was thought lost.

‘Yes,’ said Sha-Kaan. ‘He is one of three.’ He was silent for a moment though his breath like a roaring fire filled the space. ‘There remain on this island those that would threaten me,’ he said. ‘Together, they are powerful.’

Axes snapped from back clasps.

‘We understand,’ said Ark. ‘They are no longer our masters.’

Removal of threat. It was what Protectors did best.

The storm across Xetesk had brought strong winds and driving rain but the air smelled fresh and vibrant after the confines of the catacombs. For long glorious moments, Hirad hadn’t cared where they were. He had lain flat on the muddy ground, heaving in air untainted with the stench of death while rain washed over his aching body, pattering on his face and sluicing blood from his armour.

Eventually, he’d pushed himself up on to his elbows, his body a little calmer, the pain throbbing down to a dull ache. Reality had intruded harshly. They were hidden in a bank of thick gorse, scattered with bracken as Myx had described. The thorny bushes offered a solid barrier around the small clearing in which the vent was situated and provided some break from the wind. Low tunnels ran away through the bank in three directions.

In the small space, Thraun cradled Erienne in his arms while Denser, Auum and Duele crowded round the prone Evunn. Paint was smeared and running over their faces, anguish plain beneath the spoiled camouflage.

Darrick was standing close by, his feet edging into the illusion that so comprehensively hid the vent grille that even close inspection might reveal nothing to the eye. Sian’erei sat under the gorse, trying in vain to keep herself dry. Of Rebraal and The Unknown, there was no sign though he could hear one or both of them approaching through the gorse.

‘How far does it extend?’ asked Hirad when The Unknown appeared.

‘Well, this vent certainly wasn’t positioned here by accident,’ said The Unknown. ‘Fifty or so yards east towards the city, there’s a short crag. Twenty feet down, no more but no one’s going to ride this way. South it extends probably a mile along a shallow slope, north probably the same and given that Rebraal isn’t back yet, I’d say west, the way the Xeteskians bring in their supplies, the gorse will extend a couple of hundred yards. It’s neat, I’ll give them that.’

‘Sounds like an ideal place to rest up,’ said Hirad. Darrick didn’t see his knowing smile.

‘I think that would be an extraordinarily bad idea,’ said the general. ‘Dystran knows our exit points. He wants to stop us. I can see us suffering familiar attacks any time. Just as soon as he gets organised.’

‘So you think we should throw ourselves on the mercy of the Lysternans or Dordovans instead?’ asked Hirad.

‘No,’ began Darrick.

‘Or perhaps whatever’s left of the Black Wings’ army of the righteous.’

‘Hirad you aren’t helping,’ said Darrick.

Hirad winked at The Unknown. ‘Actually, we’re probably strong enough to take them on. Couple of spent mages, several injured warriors and the seriously ill. No problem.’

‘Hirad, stop now,’ said The Unknown. He held up a hand to Darrick. ‘What our barbarian is trying to say in his bludgeoning, tactless way is that we need a place to hole up, at least for a few hours. We’re too sick to travel to the Al-Arynaar camp right now. But we can’t afford to be behind the Xeteskians when they break the siege.’

‘I know all that,’ said Darrick rather testily.

‘Yes,’ said Hirad. ‘And you’re carrying a wound more serious than you are admitting.’

‘I’ll live,’ said the general.

‘That’s not good enough,’ said Hirad.

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you’re no good to us crippled. You could help yourself by sitting down for a start. Then turn that mind of yours to where we can rest relatively safely.’

Darrick glared at Hirad but sat next to him anyway. ‘A lot depends on Denser,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t it always?’ replied Hirad.

‘And on Sian,’ added Darrick. The elven mage looked up. ‘Are you able to cast?’

‘It is difficult,’ she said, feeling for the words. ‘The mana is dark. Weak.’

‘That does not sound encouraging,’ said The Unknown. ‘Denser, what’s your situation?’

Denser pushed himself to his feet, giving Auum’s shoulder a consoling squeeze as he did so.

‘I have nothing left,’ he said, walking across to stand by The Unknown. ‘Evunn is not as bad as I feared but he needs a mage soon who understands MindMelt to undo the damage. It’s a senior spell. And my spell around Erienne’s mind is bleeding away. I have to rest and I have to seek the demon gateway to get my stamina back quickly. But there doesn’t seem much prospect of that. There’s more. I did have some time to look at a few of the theories back there in the Laryon hub. It’s dimensional connectivity and power they’re looking at and I didn’t like the look of the way the research was headed.

‘We should warn the allies, because if you remember the DimensionConnect spell Xetesk used at Understone a few years back, they’ll need to be prepared. So, all in all, I’d say the situation is somewhere between dismal and desperate. The only bright spot is that the familiars won’t be able to fly in this. There’s too much power in this storm, it’ll upset their senses.’

‘So where do we go right now?’ asked Hirad. ‘None of us is fit to fight, we don’t have a mage that can cast and we’re carrying Erienne.’

‘Like I said . . .’ Denser glanced across at Erienne. Thraun was hunched over her, keeping the rain from her face. ‘Erienne is the real worry. She’s battling the One on her own until Cleress wakes. This storm will seem like nothing if Cleress can’t help her and I dread to think what damage is being caused to her mind.’