‘Our turn now,’ he spat at the creature as it died.

Across the courtyard, cursyrd broke off their attacks and fled back into the air. Denied mana, Al-Arynaar mages took swords from belts and formed up by the wagons once more. Strike-strain died in their tens and dozens, snared by the same claws that so recently had been hooks to drag through the flesh of men. Reavers not quick enough to flit up to safety were hauled to the ground and hacked to pieces, their skins boiling through bright colours, their veins spewing their life onto the cobbles.

The Julatsan wagon train drove out of the college and south through the city at an easy trot. Within the eleven surviving wagons, human and elven mages with their Al-Arynaar warrior guard searched for space among the baskets and barrels of provisions and water. The ColdRoom shell held steady, covering the train front to back and spilling over into adjacent buildings, keeping the cursyrd at bay for now. Auum moved back to sit by the driver, nodding his respect at the man who, though bloodied and shivering, held the reins steady, determination in every muscle.

But the sky outside the shell was thick with cursyrd, tracking them as they fled to open ground. And what worried Auum was that with the mana density clearly growing stronger, it wouldn’t be long before the enemy could fight effectively inside the shell.

The fate of man and elf hung by the slenderest of threads.

It was dawn in Lystern but the light was dim and the few lanterns they could afford to use burned bright in the gloom. Faces were pressed to every window of the grand council chamber, though that was a misnomer now. The periphery of their ColdRoom castings was scant yards outside the filthy stained glass and across its surface, for the third day running, the flattened seeker demons crawled, searching for the telltale threads of mana they could use to direct their attacks.

In two days, they had lost two casting teams to lightning raids from the winged reavers and had been forced to withdraw into an ever-tightening space. They had too few mages to cycle their strength should they lose any more teams and their warriors were exhausted, trebling their day and night guard on this most precious of resources.

Heryst had no desire to look. Others would tell him if the seekers found what they were looking for. A slight discoloration in their pale underbellies would give them away. He had done all he could, moving the casting teams time and again. But their available area was small enough that it surely only put off the inevitable.

It had all been so sudden. The demons had seemingly become so much stronger. They had known the mana density was increasing but nothing had indicated this ability to strike so quickly and effectively at the heart of his defence. The last message he had received from Blackthorne told him that the wily Baron was under similar pressure and that they were considering running north to Xetesk where apparently the last vestiges of Balaian resistance were gathering.

He had no idea if that was true. So what if The Raven were back on the scene? So what if elves still fought in the open? He had heard nothing from any other college in over fifty days. For all he knew, his was the last that still stood free. Free. He almost laughed at the word. He had been right. They had grown complacent in their sanctuary. Lazy. They hadn’t seen the signs. The growing numbers of demons, the sudden appearance of these seekers early one morning three days ago. They hadn’t pieced it together.

And here they sat as a result with only the tower still to call their own. They had lost, temporarily it was to be prayed, access to all their tunnels and all but one well. If they couldn’t regain some space quickly, the next problem he would be facing was starvation. It was a factor that had escaped none of his dwindling band of survivors.

‘My Lord?’

Heryst took his head from his hands and looked up into Kayvel’s sick pallor. His old friend was dying by degrees. Gods drowning, they all were but something had infected this brave old man in the last days and he was fading so fast.

‘Sit, Kayvel. Gods man, you should be resting.’

Heryst pulled out the chair next to him and Kayvel sank gratefully into it and rested his elbows on the table. In the centre of the table, guards completely obscured the casting trio who held death away from them all.

‘We need a plan,’ said Kayvel gently. ‘They need to hear your voice, your strength.’

‘Do they believe I really have any?’ said Heryst, feeling the spear of doubt that had become all too familiar.

‘Never let them hear you say that. You are their leader. They love and respect you. Don’t ever forget that.’

Heryst nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But it’s so hard sometimes. Just look at what I have brought them to.’

He gestured around the council chamber, knowing what they saw was reflected in every room of the tower they called their own. Dirt, dust and rubbish covered the floors. The stale air was heavy with the smell of lantern oil and sickness. Every man, woman and child carried lice, was clothed in little more than rags and had the lank hair, dark expression and stoop that signified imminent defeat. He knew he looked the same. They had a mirror in one of the latrines but he didn’t think anyone looked in it any more.

‘Yes,’ said Kayvel. ‘It is dirty, it is squalid, it is diseased, and soon we will all succumb one way or another. But out there is the only alternative. Do you really have to ask which any of these people would prefer?’

‘But am I not just prolonging their deaths? Kayvel, you are a realist. You know what is happening to you. If what you have is infectious, well . . .’

Kayvel nodded. ‘And we have had to face it since the first day. But nothing will kill them faster than a lack of faith and belief.’

Heryst sighed. ‘What can I tell them? They aren’t blind and we are failing. What? That they should hang on and hope for salvation? That eventually the demons will get bored and drift away? What can I tell them?’

He felt helpless. He’d have cried but his tear ducts were, like his mouth, dry. How could he give them hope when he had none?

‘You have to give them a purpose and that purpose cannot be simply to hold on until they are overwhelmed. Until four days ago, we thought we were secure enough and we were wrong. Look at the fear. Taste it. Do something about it.’

Heryst looked into Kayvel’s face. He saw the fading light in his friend’s eyes and knew he had to give the dying man something to take with him.

‘You think we should try and leave, don’t you?’

‘Staying here can have but one conclusion, Heryst.’

‘Dammit.’ Heryst rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I can’t make them do this, you know. Gods burning, not all of them are fit enough to travel.’

‘Talk to them,’ said Kayvel, his tone gently chiding. ‘Your silence is damaging.’

‘Yes. Yes, I know,’ said Heryst through a breath. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll stay here with any that can’t travel. None of us will be taken.’

Heryst jolted at Kayvel’s words. ‘I wouldn’t leave you.’

‘Don’t be daft, my Lord.’ Kayvel smiled. ‘I’m too ill to run. At least let me die with dignity because die is what I undoubtedly will do.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, this could all be hypothetical. We don’t know if anyone will want to leave.’

‘Well, let’s find out, shall we?’

Everyone that could be spared from watching, guarding or casting was assembled in the growing light of the grand council chamber now that the seekers were beginning to melt away. While the light was welcome, what it meant was that the seekers had probably found what they were looking for. Heryst didn’t necessarily have much time before the next attack came in.