One of his archivists had also perished, right at the moment he must have thought he was safe. It was ironic that the raiders’ escape route back into the dome should be that first trodden by The Raven when they broke in. A time of life that seemed so distant now.

Suarav had survived by sheer force of will, holding off demons to give his mages enough time to get through the window and away into the ColdRoom lattice. But he was suffering for it now. He sat hunched in a blanket, staring down at his quivering hands. His fingers were blue and the twitching of his muscles meant he could barely hold his mug. Dystran pressed his hands around it and helped it to his lips.

Suarav’s hands were so cold. Unnaturally so. His face bore the scars of a dozen demon’s claws, his lips were cracked and pallid. The soldier had trouble taking the drink. Much of it dripped down his chin.

‘Take your time,’ said Dystran. ‘You can relax now, you’re safe.’

‘They couldn’t take my soul,’ said Suarav. ‘They couldn’t take it.’

‘No indeed.’ Dystran had been genuinely surprised by the fact.

‘And do you know why?’ Suarav’s face cracked into a pained smile. The cuts on his face crinkled, spilling fresh blood. ‘Because not all of them can do it.’

‘What?’ Dystran started and had to remind himself not to take his hands away from Suarav’s.

‘Some of the lesser castes clearly don’t have the ability or I would not be here.’

Suarav took another sip of his drink and coughed. A shudder ran the length of his body and he sighed, collapsing in a little on himself.

‘All right, enough now,’ said Dystran. ‘Build your strength. Rest easy. We will guard you here.’

‘It’s cold,’ said Suarav.

‘Yes it is,’ said Dystran, though not cold enough to account for the captain’s condition. ‘I’ll get you another blanket. Maybe some gloves.’ He snapped his fingers at one of the guards. ‘See to it.’

He pressed Suarav’s hands to his mug once more and turned to Sharyr who sat on a small sofa with the other archivist, Brynel. Both men were lapsing into shock. Bodies trembling, eyes staring. Brynel swallowed repeatedly. He was going to need attention quickly. Sharyr was only marginally better. At least he raised a smile and was able to drink.

‘You’ve done a marvellous thing,’ said Dystran.

‘If the texts we took reveal anything.’ He tried to laugh but it came out a splutter.

‘Even if they don’t, it shows we are still fighting. That we still believe we can beat these bastards.’

‘Without him we’d all be gone.’ Sharyr nodded at Suarav. A glance told Dystran he’d closed his eyes, his breathing was laboured but at least it was even. ‘He was immense. He saved us all so many times.’ Abruptly, tears streamed down Sharyr’s face and a heaving sob shook his body. ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Tea slopped over his hands and he dropped the mug which shattered in the empty fireplace, making him flinch violently.

‘Shh,’ said Dystran. He placed a calming hand on his shoulder and stroked his upper arm. ‘Let it out. It’s all right, you’re safe now.’

Sharyr clutched Dystran’s robes. ‘They kept on coming and we were too frightened to cast. They clicked their jaws, they reached for us with those hands. They got so close. We just ran and he kept them away though they bit him and scratched his face. They wanted his soul but he was so strong and they couldn’t get round him to get to us. But they taunted us, they taunted us and they reached out for our souls.’ He gripped harder. ‘I looked deep in their eyes and there was nothing there. Nothing. It’s what we face if they take us. Emptiness.’

Dystran gripped Sharyr’s wrists and gently eased his hands away. ‘But they won’t take us, will they? Because in this room, three men of incredible courage have given us a chance. You Sharyr, and Suarav and Brynel.’

‘They were so close,’ moaned Sharyr.

‘And that is as close as they’ll ever get. Think on it, Sharyr, and remember you’re safe now. They can’t get you in here. I promise.’

At last, another smile from Sharyr. ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

‘No, my friend. It is Xetesk who should be thanking you. Rest. Rest, all of you.’

Dystran stood up and spread his arms, embracing them all with the gesture. ‘Anything that you want that is within my current power, you may have. And consider yourselves stood down from any duties until further notice.’

None of them were looking at him. He wasn’t even sure any of them even heard him. He snapped his fingers at Chandyr and strode out to the first landing.

‘Laid that on a bit thick, didn’t you?’ said the commander as soon as the door had shut behind them.

‘What would you rather I do? Rush them back to the front?’ Dystran moved away to the top of the stairs. ‘Did you stop to look at them?’

‘Yeah, they look in some trouble.’

‘Some trouble? Bloody hell, Chandyr, I’m no healer but I’d say they were all dying, wouldn’t you? Suarav is in desperate straits. Now you’re out here to take orders, not discuss whether I’m patronising our survivors or not. I don’t know what to do with any of them. Get our best up here and get me an answer. If that means getting them into the control zone in the catacombs so we can cast, then do it. Your men love Suarav and I need Sharyr able to help examine our new texts.’

‘And Brynel?’

‘We need every mage, Commander.’ He indicated Chandyr go ahead of him. ‘I’m not prepared to lose any of those men in there. And that means you need to run faster than I do.’

Dystran paused at the top of the spiral stair and watched his commander go. Halfway down he heard a hurried ‘Sir!’ and then a second set of footsteps came closer as Chandyr’s diminished. Dystran waited for the man to climb the stairs. It was a mage, Feiyn.

‘My Lord,’ he said, breathing hard. He was weak from poor food and confinement and, like them all, dying by degrees.

‘I’m presuming you aren’t running up here merely to tone your legs.’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘Well, I’m on my way down. If you have breath, walk with me and tell me what it is that couldn’t wait.’

Dystran led the way down the stairs at a gentle pace.

‘Vuldaroq has read one of the texts.’

Dystran had to check himself before he spoke. ‘He could read our lore, could he?’ he said instead.

‘This is a general research paper. A theory based on a mapping of energies in inter-dimensional space.’

‘Ah. Sounds like the work of dear old Bynaar to me. He was the first man to postulate that mana flow could be ordered and driven without . . .’ Dystran trailed off even as he heard the sharply in-drawn breath behind him. ‘I don’t recall asking for texts on that subject.’

‘It was inside another on demonology,’ explained Feiyn.

Dystran stopped. ‘What does it say?’

‘Vuldaroq can explain it better. He asked if I’d come and get you.’

‘Right, let’s hear what he has to say.’

They found Vuldaroq sitting in the dome complex, his back to Dystran’s tower, much as he had been since his dramatic arrival. There was still no colour in his face but his eyes had regained a little sparkle. He managed a smile as he looked up from his study to see Dystran approach.

‘My Lord Vuldaroq, I understand you’ve been busy.’

‘Best that way,’ he said. Like those in Dystran’s chambers, exertion and fear had left a tremble in his body and voice. But at least the shock hadn’t set in. Not yet anyway.

‘Care to enlighten me?’

‘Your man Bynaar was an astute researcher. Arteche speaks highly of him in works we treasure . . . well, treasured.’

Vuldaroq flourished the paper. It was a small but heavy-looking set of parchments, torn about its edges. Dystran estimated a dozen pages, no more.

‘Go on.’

‘He was tracing shifts in mana density centuries ago. And in this paper he links it to the movement of demons from one space to another. I’m presuming the knowledge we have concerning your links with the demon dimension is sound.’