He had used these as he must, to drain the morale of his quarry and keep that of his cohorts high, bodies satiated. He had to work to weaken his enemies a little more every day even if he couldn’t beat them yet. What irritated him most was that all the effects had been at best short-term. And the reason was clear enough.

One human was the difference. Tall, dark-haired and bearded. Eyes like crystal. His aura burned more brightly than any mage within. Blackthorne. He led with empathy linked to iron discipline and control. The latter Ferouc could respect and understand. The former was completely alien to him. Nevertheless, it gave them belief.

Ferouc flapped his wings lazily and fell into a glide above the settlement. The free below him paid him no heed. That had irked him but he understood it better now. Besides, he knew something Blackthorne didn’t. Long-lived as their resistance had been, their time was finite. Their thrall and eventual destruction was an inevitability.

It had made him wonder why they didn’t just wait. Use the souls they had and enjoy their new world. But he had been made to understand and it was why he had not been moved from this place. There had always been a contingency for dangerous resistance in the colleges. And that had been put into place. A no-risk approach to wearing them down. In the outlying settlements, the capital city, the major ports and regional capitals, there was no such allowance. The masters wanted these places under control before the final battle. There was just the chance that their strength would not be sufficient if they could not move forces from the regions to the college centres when they wanted to.

And one thing they could not afford was for there to be damage done to them in places that should be theirs by right. They had a dominant position now but when the time came that position would be at risk if they had not exerted the control they needed over all but the three remaining colleges.

The demon canted a wing and soared upwards on a cool current of air. He breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation through his body. So much like home now. As it should be. He barely remembered the taste when he had first arrived, though he could recall the feelings of repulsion he had been forced to overcome.

A new scent caught in his receptors. Powerful. Desirable. He recognised it instantly as they all would. One of the true prizes in this dimension. Every thought he had harboured about his expulsion to the provincial settlement was washed away on a tide of pleasure and anticipation.

He soared higher, searching, calling to his cohorts. He felt an unconfined joy, his receptors ablaze with this most precious of auras. It was them. It was The Raven.

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ asked Hirad the moment they hit the beach.

Auum’s Tai, Rebraal and from the ship’s company two elven mages, Vituul and Eilaan, had run to the first rise to scout the immediate terrain beyond the temporary wooden dock to which they had tied. The Raven had grouped around Thraun.

‘It gives us a better chance,’ said Thraun, unbuttoning his shirt and handing it to Hirad.

The barbarian stuffed it into a pack along with his boots. Thraun’s weapons were already strapped to The Unknown’s back.

‘I know. But I can’t let you go without reminding you what happened last time.’

Thraun met his gaze levelly, remembered pain flaring in his eyes.

‘I will never forget why Will died. This is different. This is for speed, not stealth. You know that.’

‘You’re sure?’

Thraun gripped Hirad’s shoulders. ‘I’ll be fine. Just bring my stuff and be there to call me back.’ He stripped off his breeches and handed them over. ‘Now get going and don’t look back.’

‘Come on, Hirad,’ said The Unknown. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

Hirad nodded and The Raven formed up into a combat line adapted for the shapechanger’s absence. The elves were to provide forward protection and warning, the Protectors remained on board ship, their souls being saved for the battles to come. Erienne and Denser were to prepare nothing unless they were attacked. It was two hours on foot to Blackthorne. A long time in a country occupied by demons.

It was a land Hirad had travelled so often but a land he hardly recognised now. The grass still grew in its multiple hues of green and yellow. The budding new trees swayed in the breeze and wild flowers decked the gently rolling land in glorious colours. But under his feet and to his senses it was alien. For a moment he couldn’t place why, but slowly he began to understand.

None of the ambience of life was present. Where he had heard gulls on the open water, here the birds were silent. Only the breeze ruffled the undergrowth, while rodents kept themselves hidden. The distant echo of bleating or lowing was absent. And it was chill. Not right for the time of year and somehow malevolent. It was as if the seasons had become confused and let the vegetation burst into spring verdancy while the wildlife struggled to awaken from hibernation.

The answer came to him then and it fired his determination afresh. Balaia’s soul was failing.

The Raven kept up a fast walk behind the all-seeing shield of the elves jogging ahead. Concealment was pointless, it wouldn’t necessarily get them there safe since the demons didn’t work just by sight. Speed just might.

Ahead of them, the land rolled up a slow incline bereft of anything but gorse, coarse shrub and loose shale. Blackthorne lay on the extremities of a flood plain that ran south to the southern ocean, dry itself because beneath the soil the foundation rock was porous, drawing water far underground. The town would be hidden until the last mile of travel but, even so, distant smoke smudged the otherwise perfect sky. The tiny circling black dots had to be demons.

Hirad shuddered. Behind him, something moved quickly through the undergrowth. Not breaking his stride, Hirad looked round. The dark, lithe shape of Thraun approached, loping easily in the bracken. His face was alert, his muzzle light-striped and long, he sampled the air, tongue hanging between powerful jaws.

The wolf paced by Hirad, looking up into his eyes.

‘I’ll be there for you, Thraun,’ he said. ‘Just be careful.’

Satisfied, Thraun ran away into the brush.

Thraun could taste the dying of the land. It pervaded his every sense, growing stronger with every pace that he left The Raven behind. The rotting assaulted his nose, the crushing of life he could feel on his tongue and see through his eyes. The prey wasn’t there. No spoor, no trail. Gone into hiding or disappeared for ever.

Thraun ran on, sampling what was left. The vegetation, unburdened by demon conquest, was alive and growing strong. Towards Blackthorne, the scent of wood smoke and human was on the air. It was gentle compared with the sick odour of the demons. They were the life after decay, the feeling after death and the dark that shattered the pack.

It was passed down through the generations. The fear. Thraun tried to shut it from his mind. He padded swiftly across the land, his wolven senses alert, that part of his brain that retained his humanity driving him towards his goal. His memories would dim quickly but the image of the human he needed was clear in his mind. Tall, strong. A leader with the scent of courage on him. Thraun would not mistake him.

At the periphery of his hearing, Thraun caught calls high in the morning sky. He hunkered down beneath a stand of gorse and scanned above. Demons. Flying west towards The Raven. He growled. They had smelled prey. Thraun felt an urge to protect The Raven, the pack. But his mind still retained the reason why he now lay so close to the human dwellings and it spurred him on more strongly.