Behind them, the Teryithyrian warriors fought the Protectorate, with tooth and claw, their casters holding the power of the Protocrat wizards at bay. He did not understand magic, but he could feel it. He didn’t need his swords ululating song to know what flew through the air around him.

He could not see his companion’s in the heaving melee, but caught the occasional glimpse of Renir’s whirring axe and the mayhem that followed the axe man where he fought. Drun stood on a similar hillock, at the edge of the battle, surrounded by a nimbus of holy light. His magic joined with that of the white beasts. Shorn took a moment to wonder just how powerful the priest was…perhaps, with his aid, they might win the day.

A warrior had seen him, but Shorn was untroubled. He held the high ground. He stood firm as the soldier charged toward him, held his blade to one side and prepared to strike. The hill crumbled, his weak leg buckled under him, but still he managed to disembowel the warrior in front of him.

He found himself alone again, a dead warrior at his feet. He whirled, looking for another enemy.

No one stood before him. Somehow, he had made it through.

He returned his gaze to the battle, his breath still steady, his mind clear and calm despite the cacophony of screams and battle cries floating through the air. He was untouched by the magic colliding in the skies above, or the ash raining from above. He searched for the portal with sharp eyes, but having never seen one he did not know what to look for.

Power coruscated through the air, and he found what he was looking for. It was a shimmering circle of light, an unprotected beacon in the centre of the battle.

He caught sight of Renir’s flashing axe from the corner of his eye. He hoped his friend had learned enough to protect himself in midst of a battle, where, outnumbered, swords came from all sides. But from the glittering arc of his weapon, Haertjuge, Shorn saw that he had learned a warrior’s trick — attack hard enough, and defence takes care of itself. It was a way to create space, always fighting on the front foot, push the enemy back and you will find you have time to think, in the way that thoughts come in the heat of battle — furiously, leaping into your mind.

On the plateau below him, the circle of power crackled between two crystals. The light was growing brighter. Here, in the calm eye of the battle, he could see that it was pulsing, the waves of light becoming more powerful, more intense.

He ran, unobstructed, to where the portal waited.

He felt no fear, but he wondered if their allies had made it through, as Drun had promised they would, or if more of the blood red warriors would make it through. Surely, with their dark powers, their brethren would already know of the battle being fought at the foot of the mountains.

When he reached the portal, the wind picked up, chill and biting, somehow blowing through the portal. It made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

He prayed it was their friends coming through. They could not hold off more of these warriors.

A blinding flash of light broke the darkness — the white beasts were bringing the power of the storm against the enemy casters. Lightening flashed again. He closed his eyes but the brightness was burned on his retinas. He waited for the afterimage to fade.

The wind howled.

He raised his sword and held it to one side. His hood blew away from his face, the wind scouring his cold-blistered skin.

Calmly, he crouched. Voices were drifting through, blown by the fey wind… lonely here…join us…dead voices, with no warmth in their cadence, just echoes of the living.

But they were persuasive. He shook his head to free his mind, but they called to him and he could hear nothing else. The sounds of battle faded to nothing, until all he could hear was the voices. Somewhere, in his mind, he knew they were the remnant of lost souls, that they wanted him… so lonely…they whispered.

Unseen by Shorn, his attention entirely taken up by the portal, a warrior approached.

Renir’s axe flew through the air, killing the soldier.

Leaning down to retrieve his weapon from the dead soldier’s back, Renir glanced into Shorn’s eyes. They were unfocused, as though he stared at something distant…perhaps, even, in the past. Renir understood instantly that it was the effect of the portal. He backed away from it, but he did not know enough about it to know whether it needed Shorn’s attention, or whether even to try to return his friend to sensibility.

But, looking around him, they were in a circle of calm. No soldiers approached — not yet. They had bought themselves some time.

And he did not think it would be long. Wind howled from the portal, blowing Shorn’s hair back from his scarred face, and Renir could hear voices rising (underneath the voices, eerie words drifted, but the voice in his head spoke over them, ‘do not listen’ it said…he had learned to trust the voice in his head.) Instead, he could hear human voices.

“We are nearly there,” one said, and he knew that no Protocrat would need such assurances.

Allies were coming.

He hoped they had brought an army, but any help would be welcome. He turned his attention to the battle flowing around them, like a river around a rock. Ignored by all, he stood guard at Shorn’s back.

Their friends were coming. It had been a long wait. Soon, they would know…had they won the day, or would they fail before ever seeing the fabled red wizard’s ancient face.

He hefted his axe, taking comfort in its weight, and began to sing. Anything was better than the pleading of the souls trapped within the portal.

Know peace, Tirielle A’m Dralorn, rest your head a moment…come lie with us, here, under the dark…there is nothing to fear…no anger, no hate, no pain, or loss…your father is with us, Tirielle. Dran A’m Dralorn rests in us, beyond the world of suffering…there is nothing left for you in the world, you have lost everyone, but in us you can be with them again…join with us…it is easy, just rest…no pain…no more loss…no more suffering…

Her tears coursed down her cheeks, washing clear the grime from her face, but they could not cleanse her heart.

She knew the voices for what they were. Lost souls, the echoes of the ages. If her father had been with them, she would have heard his voice. A voice she had not heard since she was a child, but nevertheless lived on in her mind. It was that voice which she heard now.

‘There is no peace this side of death, daughter, and to wish so is folly. There is only the fight. Always, no matter how hard the path you travel, remember this; to fight for yourself, that is natural. To fight for others: that is divine. I will love you whichever you choose, just so long as you fight…’

And she fought. She fought against the desire to put her head down, to end the suffering. She fought because she knew that those she lost along the way would want her to. She was a fighter. That was all she had. All her life had been a struggle, and until her last breath she would rail against her fate. She would strive, overcome…she might not succeed…she was not a fool. The odds were stacked heavily against her, but she was in until the end. The easy way out was for cowards. Her father had raised no cowards.

But, oh, the pain she felt. It was as real, as solid, as a blow to the chest. Her ribs ached, her breathing was hard. She sobbed, and felt her heart labouring in her chest. Sharp pains racked her body, but she knew it was just the pain of loss. She was not injured, but once more she had been destined to lose a man she loved.

That he did not love her in return mattered little. She had grown to love him, to love his face, his gentle eyes, even his fierce hands that wielded a sword…what choice did he have? It was a time of war. Perhaps, in another life, he might have been a scholar, or a farmer…still she would have loved him. A man’s nature does not change, whatever he holds in his hand.