Tessaya fought the urge to stand, and instead leaned back further into his chair. ‘But you cannot afford to, can you, Drenoul? Is it not true that should you send a force capable of taking some of my warriors, you would compromise your siege of Xetesk, or of Lystern or Julatsa, and allow them to strike out?

‘You do not frighten me, Drenoul. Nor do you frighten any of those I command. I am aware we cannot kill you or any of your race but neither can you break us with a touch or a cut. My warriors are strong and they are numerous. We can keep you back at will. We have Understone Pass at our backs. We are a problem you wish you didn’t have to face. As are the elves. Easterners are weak, their spirits are vulnerable. And in two years you have failed to break them. What makes you think you will ever be able to break us?’

Drenoul made a move forwards and immediately eight warriors drew their weapons and responded. Drenoul stopped, his colour now a thin, pale blue verging on white.

‘Your words will not save you when we march on your helpless lands, Tessaya. They will ring hollow in your ears. The offer is withdrawn.’

Drenoul floated high into the sky, turned and flew quickly back towards Julatsa.

Tessaya pushed himself from his chair. ‘Withdrawn? Rejected, I would suggest.’ He looked for the lieutenant again. ‘They don’t need us to help them fight in Julatsa, I am certain of it. But they want us out of the way. Every scout that returns from the north, I want reporting immediately to me.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

Tessaya began to walk back towards the fires at the centre of the camp.

‘Something is about to happen. Something critical. I can feel it.’

Dystran and Vuldaroq were studying one of the more arcane and complex texts stolen from the library when the change in atmosphere happened. It was quite sudden, like the sun burning through thin cloud to warm the earth. They were in Dystran’s chambers, surrounded by guards and with their few script-scholars nearby. These latter four were working on language which had defeated both the senior mages.

It took Dystran a while to work out what it was that had alerted his subconscious and caused him to look up and through his closed balcony windows.

‘What has just happened?’ he asked, pushing his chair back.

‘You were struggling to decipher this word and wondered where it was they went, whoever they were, and if there are any of them left,’ said Vuldaroq, a half-smile on his thin face.

Dystran glanced sideways at Vuldaroq as he got up. How strange the fortunes of Balaia had revealed themselves to be. Vuldaroq was a man that Dystran would gladly have seen swinging from a tree in the college courtyard before the demons had invaded. But without losing any of his trademark bite, the head of the Dordovan college had revealed himself to be a man of depth and strength as well as possessing a sharp analytical mind. It had taken him some time to throw off the memories of his flight from Dordover but he and his few mages had proved a tonic in the college of their erstwhile enemies.

If only they could break down the terminology contained in the texts Sharyr had brought back. Something important was eluding him and it was based around an allusion to a people called the Charanacks. They held knowledge, so the text maintained, that had been the basis of the first deal struck between demon and Xeteskian mage well over a millennium ago. Dystran was frustrated. He’d have loved to know who they were. They would almost certainly be worth talking to.

‘I don’t mean that,’ said Dystran. He walked to the balcony doors and opened them, standing inside while his guards gathered about him. ‘Just listen.’

Everyone in the chamber did so. Dystran saw a frown cross Vuldaroq’s face.

‘Quiet,’ he said.

‘Silence more like,’ said Dystran.

He indicated his guards accompany him and he walked out into the fresh air of his balcony. Every day since the gliders had finished their search of the mana trails that identified the positions of their ColdRoom casters, demon activity had been incessant.

They had suffered a number of quick attacks from the reavers that they had been lucky to repel without losing any of their mages and only three swordsmen. And when the attacks weren’t coming in, the creatures swarmed the shell, probing and teasing. They kept up a barrage of sound, hoping to distract their targets, and further away, any who cared to look would see enslaved Xeteskians being herded from one area of the city to another. There seemed no discernible purpose to this barring the sapping of morale.

But now the shell was deserted. Dystran couldn’t see a single demon flying above the college or walking the outer walls. Further afield, he could see no slaves in the streets, no clusters of demons hovering over them as they worked. He could hear no cries of the exhausted, terrified and dying. There was no smoke from cook fires. Nothing.

Far in the distance, he could see the shapes of demons clustered in the air to the north. Confident, he walked the circle of his balcony. Away to the south, the fires of the Wesmen signified their confusing and continuing presence. Dystran wished they’d join one side or the other. Or indeed return to the Heartlands. Occasionally he had seen demons hovering near to the Wesmen. Attacking, talking or simply watching, he couldn’t tell. There were none there now. In the distant east there were more demons. West towards the Blackthornes too. Dark patches in the sky at the edges of the city and beyond.

Dystran completed his circuit and looked up into the sky above the college. In the blue, the vibrating white slash hung. If he tuned in to the mana spectrum he knew he’d be able to see the pure mana flooding into Balaia, strengthening the demons with every passing heartbeat. And occasionally, more demons would travel from wherever it was their homeland lay across inter-dimensional space, swarming into the sky before dispersing about whatever tasks they had been summoned to perform.

There was a crowd at the balcony doors.

‘A trap, do you think?’ asked Vuldaroq.

Dystran shook his head. ‘It isn’t their style, is it? I just don’t understand it.’

‘We should take advantage,’ said Chandyr, who never left Dystran’s side. ‘Bring some of our people into the college.’

‘No,’ said Dystran.

‘My Lord—’

‘No,’ he repeated. ‘Think, Chandyr.’

‘I am,’ said the commander, bristling. ‘We have a chance to save some of our own.’

Dystran ushered them all back inside. He shared the urge to do exactly what Chandyr desired but he knew it was folly. ‘Whether it is a trap or not is immaterial. For one thing, I don’t think you will find any Xeteskians within a mile of the college. Wherever those demons are hovering, that is where our people are, believe me. But even should you bring them in, it is impractical. We can barely feed and water ourselves, let alone any more mouths.’

Chandyr relaxed a little and inclined his head. ‘I know you’re right, it’s just . . .’ He gestured out towards the city.

‘I understand,’ said Dystran. ‘There is no one in this room, in this college, who does not want to save every man, woman and child in our city. But we have to liberate them when we can truly help them. That isn’t now but we will do it.

‘But you’re right, we must take advantage. So don’t stand there. Take the fastest runners you have and let’s get something more from the library, assuming it didn’t all burn. And Chandyr, we don’t trust these bastards, right? So make sure some of your sprinters can cast, won’t you?’

The Raven had enjoyed a peculiar rest. They, plus Kas, Ark and Eilaan, had camped on the idyllic shores of Triverne Lake for three days and four nights. They had seen no sign of demons. They had seen no sign of anything barring forest creatures, in truth. Curious. They’d sparred and trained, talked and rested but it all had a surreal quality. None of them could ever ignore the fact of what was to come.