The morning cacophony of monkeys, birds, insects, frogs and anything else that had a voice was in full cry when Ben-Foran decided to wash in the temple pool. Yron's rather clumsy work on the statue's hand might have eroded the majesty of the sculpture but it had had the desired effect. The much increased water flow into the pool had quickly cleared the grime from four dozen sweaty filthy bodies, and now, in the diffused light of dawn, it was crystal clear once again.

Yron was keen for his men not to get lazy and so, barring the sick and the mages, who were tending the ill and examining scrolls and parchments in a room that had opened up with the first touch of light, everyone was outside. Everyone, that is, except Ben, who was duty temple officer. While he swam, Yron and all the rest of the relatively fit were either on hunting parties, investigating the rear of the temple and the area surrounding it, collecting more firewood or preparing breakfast and making a stores inventory.

Despite the hardships of the rainforest, the loss of so many of those he'd travelled with and the feeling he couldn't shift that, despite his loyalty, this was a raid too far, Ben-Foran had to admit to himself that he was rather enjoying it. Partly it was because he had survived with barely a scratch and without catching the fever to which so many had succ.u.mbed. Mostly it was because he was with Captain Yron, a real leader and universally loved by the men in his charge. He commanded total respect because he treated all in his command as equals, whatever their rank; a very difficult balance to strike given his position of superiority. And he was a great teacher, constantly springing surprises and doing things by a book all of his own devising. His unorthodoxy didn't endear him to his masters and was, no doubt, why he had gained plenty of experience in places like the Calaian rainforests, but for his men, it was something they could always talk about. If they survived.

Ben-Foran was scared of swimming in rivers, indeed any open area of water where creatures might lurk, but this pool was relaxation itself. On a whim, he duck-dived and swam down, drifting slowly over the statue's hand that lay at rest at the bottom of the pool, the living forest sounds muted as the water closed over his head.

He could see that part of the thumb had broken off where it had hit the bottom of the pool and was trapped underneath the rest. Bracing himself against the back wall, he half rolled, half pushed the hand aside to release the thumb, s.n.a.t.c.hing it up and surging back to the surface with it held aloft like a trophy.

'Morning, Ben.' The captain's voice rang out around the temple.

'Good morning, sir,' replied Ben, turning in the water to see Yron silhouetted in the doorway, the canvas covering tied back.

'Glad to see you're putting your duty to good use. I can't imagine anything we'll need more in the days to come than an expert diver.'

Ben-Foran blushed, splashed hurriedly to the side of the pool and hauled himself out to sit dripping at its edge, heart suddenly beating hard.

'Sorry, sir.'

To his surprise and relief, Yron laughed. 'Don't worry, boy,' he said, slapping him hard on the shoulder, the wet crack echoing off the temple walls. 'It's exactly what I would have done.'

Ben got up and pulled on his loincloth, the thumb tight in his hand.

'Still, I see your exploration wasn't entirely wasted,' said Yron, indicating his prize.

'No, sir. I saw it had broken off, you know, and-'

'-thought you'd have yourself a souvenir.'

'Yes, sir.'

Yron tutted and shook his head. He snapped his fingers then held out his hand. 'Well, with one small amendment, it was a sound plan.'

A little reluctantly, Ben handed over the thumb. Yron examined it closely. It was a finely detailed piece, a little over five inches long.

'Now this is a lesson it is my pleasure to teach you,' said Yron, smiling broadly.

'What's that, Captain?' Ben felt the question was expected though he had no desire to ask it.

Yron leaned in a little closer. 'It's something you'll no doubt be able to practise in the future when you have your own command. It's called pulling rank.' He chuckled and slipped the piece into his pocket before spreading his arms wide. 'There you are. Simple, isn't it? Now, get yourself dressed, there's something I want you to see.'

Ben nodded, aware suddenly that he was already dry. He frowned and paused for a moment. It was definitely hotter in here than it had been yesterday afternoon. Odd. He shrugged and pulled on his trousers.

As leader of the task force, he knew it had to be him. Sytkan took the longest walk of his life up the gentle slopes of Herendeneth towards the needle. He walked alone as a show of peaceful intent but the only solace he could really take as he walked was that he could hope they thought he was here to help.

They watched him as he picked his way up around the graves of the ancients, their heads unmoving, eyes not blinking. Sytkan was acutely aware of his frailty, of the ease with which either of these incredible creatures could snuff out his life.

He'd had no real idea of their size, their sheer domination of the s.p.a.ce around them, until he got closer. And there they lay, like two huge golden sculptures. They were each a hundred feet and more long from nose to tail, the mounds of their bodies higher than his house and their stupendous wings folded back along their glittering scaled flanks.

Sytkan was less than thirty feet from them, his steps tentative and nervous, his nose full of their sharp wood and oil odour, when they moved. Heads as tall as he was swept out on long graceful necks and arrowed down on his insignificance. It was all he could do to stay standing.

'Um . . .' he began, and all his planned words fell from his memory. His eyes fixed on the upper fangs of the larger dragon as it opened its mouth. Dear G.o.ds burning, those teeth.

'I am Sha-Kaan, Great Kaan of my Brood. Nos-Kaan rests by me. And I understand from my Dragonene and friend, Hirad Coldheart, that you are Sytkan, mage of Xetesk. You and yours are here to find us a way home from this disagreeable dimension.'

'I . . . Yes,' said Sytkan. 'I . . . That is, at least partially. And that's why I - we - may need to ask you some questions. Is . . . um, will that be acceptable?'

The great dragon laughed. The breath blew Sytkan from his feet, the sound pounded around his skull and reverberated through ground and air.

'It is expected,' said Sha-Kaan. 'How else will you understand when you find Beshara?'

Sytkan got slowly to his feet and dusted himself down. 'Beshara?' he ventured.

'Our home,' said Sha-Kaan.

'Sorry, of course,' said Sytkan, never having heard the word before. His gaze locked on to Sha-Kaan's, he saw deep into those bottomless eyes and the power they contained and his composure deserted him. 'Well, I er, I came up here to introduce myself. I'm the leader of the Xeteskians and I a.s.sure you of our good intent as to wanting to work with you in the best way possible and is there a good or better or worse - if you see what I mean - time to talk to you?'

Sytkan gasped in a breath. Sha-Kaan regarded him for a long moment, the huge slitted black pupil narrowing very slightly. His eyes blinked slowly and he stretched his mouth. The mage fought the urge to turn and run.

'Well met,' said Sha-Kaan without hint of warmth. 'Ask us what you will, when you will, though I suggest when we are landed is your best time.' Sha-Kaan laughed at his own lame joke. 'Now go, unless there is anything more?'

'No. No, no,' said Sytkan, relief flooding through him. 'Thank you.'

He turned but had taken only one pace before he found himself staring at Sha-Kaan again, the dragon's long neck curving away out of sight behind him.

'Tell me, Sytkan,' rumbled Sha-Kaan. 'There are but two Al-Drechar and two Kaan dragons on this island. Yet to research and gather information you have brought with you thirty mages and a hundred Protectors. Perhaps you would like to explain.'

Sytkan felt cold all around his heart. 'Well, there are many disciplines represented,' he bl.u.s.tered. 'Many strands to the research. The Protectors are merely-'

Sha-Kaan snorted derisively, dumping Sytkan on his backside again. 'Do not presume to insult my intelligence.' His head shot forwards, his muzzle stopping inches from Sytkan's face. All the mage could see were scales, teeth and ire. 'My flame ducts may be dry but these -' he snapped his jaws meaningfully '- are in perfect working order. I will be watching you. All of you. Do not give me cause to become disappointed.'

Selik wanted to laugh out loud. Even though he'd ridden hard from Erskan and they'd stopped well after nightfall for only a few s.n.a.t.c.hed hours of rest before setting off again at daylight, he hadn't expected to sight his quarries until the following day at least. Yet there they were, no more than a couple of miles ahead on the trail, the dust of their pa.s.sage clouding into the warm late morning.

They were heading north on the princ.i.p.al trail that led to the ruined town of Denebre and then on into the mage lands. A fertile part of Balaia, the landscape here, like so much of the country, had been ruined. Trees lay snapped or uprooted, farms were abandoned and fields lay unplanted or with the remnants of rotted crops still in the soil. It was a gently rolling vista, with shallow slopes and vales criss-crossed with a lattice of streams and rivers. To the west, the Blackthorne Mountains made up the entire horizon, their gaunt majesty punctuated only by the eastern face of the Varhawk Crags, scene of one of the most famous victories of the last Wesmen wars.

But Selik wasn't concerned with the scene around him right now. He and his men had reined in at the top of a rise and were looking down onto a gra.s.sland plain. In the middle of it, a single covered wagon drove slowly on, the reason for the mages' slow progress obvious. Despite Erskan's a.s.sertion that he numbered mages among his friends, he hadn't been over-kind to these, however many there were. The carriage was being dragged by a single, fairly small horse.

'What's your guess at the numbers in there?' asked Selik of Devun.

The man blew out his cheeks. 'Well, they're very slow but it's impossible to see what the horse's condition is from here. I reckon they're overloaded so, a.s.suming there are two up front, there could be as many as four inside, plus baggage.'

'That's a.s.suming there were ever that many mages in Erskan.'

Devun shrugged. 'Best to a.s.sume more than less.'

'All right.' Selik nodded, then raised his voice to address all of them. 'We're going to a.s.sume there are six but I doubt there's a warrior guard in there with them. You all know what to do. Let's not rush and they may not hear us until it's too late. It's time to make another statement. Let's go.'

There was precious little cover and they would be seen as soon as anyone looked back; and with no magical defence, they were open to spell attack. But there were fifty Black Wings, all of whom knew the dangers of attacking mages, and their tactic was simple.

Pushing on at just under a canter, they narrowed the distance quickly, the carriage ahead b.u.mping and rattling over the uneven ground. Selik rode front and centre of the formless group, feeling a thrill through his body as they closed. This would be a blow for Balaia. A blow for the righteous.

Perhaps half a mile behind the carriage they were spotted. The back of the square-framed canvas covering twitched aside, and though he couldn't hear it, Selik could imagine the shout of alarm and saw its result as the single horse was urged to a flat-out gallop.

The carriage began to pull away but Selik could see immediately that it wasn't sustainable. Resisting the urge to up the Black Wings' pace, he was content to follow, waiting for the carriage to slow when the horse spent itself and enjoying the desperation he knew they must be feeling. Even if they didn't know exactly who was following them, fifty men on horseback were never going to be good news at a time like this.

A quarter of a mile behind and with the horse slowing dramatically, the carriage slewed to a halt across the trail in a cloud of dust. Figures leapt from back and front to kneel motionless. Casting.

It was to be expected. Selik signalled spread and gallop, circling his arm above his head and splaying gloved fingers wide. Behind him, the Black Wings picked up the pace, driving into a rough double-rowed crescent. The quartet at the points, his finest hors.e.m.e.n, nocked arrows into bows, steering their mounts with stirrup and thigh.

The blood surged through Selik's body, sending pins and needles into the dead parts of his face and chest. He dragged in a huge breath and yelled a triumphant cry, the sound of two hundred hooves thrumming in his head.

In front of him the mages remained still, bar one who looked up, spreading his arms wide in an enveloping motion. At the points, his bowmen tracked in, loosed their arrows and wheeled away immediately, Selik seeing the shafts all bounce from the cast HardShield.

The sky flashed orange.

'Break!' yelled Selik, half a dozen FlameOrbs soaring out towards them.

The Black Wing lines broke and scattered, the globes of mana fire, each the size of a skull, arcing across the sky. The mages were good, individual Orbs following their targets faster than a horse could gallop and splashing down to cover two or three riders and mounts, the soundless impact rendered horribly real by the screams of men and horses.

Hunched low in his saddle, Selik looked back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing and anger building. He counted four men ablaze in their saddles, horses shrieking, plunging this way and that, stumbling and falling as they attempted to dislodge their riders. Another three were already on the ground, beating uselessly at the flames that consumed armour and flesh. And streaking across the plain, fire gorging on mane, back and tail, a horse trailed smoke as it galloped to inevitable and agonising death, rider already gone.

But if the mages expected their attackers to be dismayed by death so easily wrought, they were sadly mistaken. The Black Wings were on them. One more mage cast, her ForceCone punching out, stopping three horses in their tracks and smashing riders from saddles. Selik heard the snap of equine bones, shut the pain from his mind, drew his sword and plunged into the enemy.

Leaning down from his saddle, he whipped his sword through low, the blade carving into the mage's face, snapping the head back and cartwheeling her flopping corpse end over end. Not pausing, he rode down the HardShield mage and only then dragged at the reins to turn his horse round to a stop.

His men had done exactly the job required. A third mage was dead, body twisted unnaturally, a slick of blood already subsiding into the earth under his chest. The other two were being held while they were beaten into a state where they couldn't have cast if their lives depended on it. Shame, because for one of them, it did.

Selik trotted back to the wagon, which two of his men were already ransacking. He smiled and swept back his hood, dismounting when he reached his captives, the sound of their gasps and grunts of pain sweet in his ears. He spared a glance at the fires still smouldering a hundred yards away and the smile left his face.

'Enough,' he ordered.

The rain of punches, sword pommels and kicks stopped, both men having to be supported to remain upright.

He nodded. 'Good work,' he said, seeing the blood running from noses and mouths, the puffed eyes and torn ears. But no amount of blood on their faces could mask the fear in their eyes.

'More mages running from their responsibilities,' he said, standing close to them, letting the venom in his mind spit from his mouth. 'Running from what they have created. Where were you going, eh? Away to join your armies for a new a.s.sault on the innocents of Balaia?'

He shrugged. 'You're sc.u.m. Worthless, cowardly sc.u.m.'

'We'd have stayed to help but your supporters wanted us gone,' said one of the mages, voice thick through split and swelling lips.

Selik stepped up and grabbed him by the throat, pushing his head back. 'The damage was already done, fool. What help could you give now?'

'So what is it that you want from us? To stay or to leave?' said the mage, desperation clear in his voice.

'I want you to face up to what your kind has done to my world,' said Selik, not releasing his grip. 'You know what I saw in Erskan? Three children who would have killed each other for a sc.r.a.p of bread a rat would turn down. You have sapped the strength and the will from those who trusted you. You have broken their spirit. But I am going to give it back to them and you and your kind will never wield your unholy power so freely again.'

'We could have helped, had we been allowed to stay,' pleaded the mage. 'We could have healed the people. Healed the ground.'

Selik dropped his hand and stepped away. 'You really don't understand what you've done to Balaia and its people do you? How blind you are to think that after magic has destroyed so much, people would allow you to cast a few more spells to put it right. You have lost their trust but still you think it is as easy as waving your hands.'

He turned to the second mage, finding the man glaring defiantly back at him.

'Nothing to say?' he asked.

'To someone who would deny magic to an entire population because of a single rogue, no. It is you who are blind, Selik, you and the monkeys who follow you so slavishly.'

'Some fight still left, at least,' said Selik to the chuckles of his men within earshot. 'Trouble is, I don't really think I want to hear your voice on the road. Because you won't listen. So you will stay as a warning and your friend here will accompany us.'

He gestured to the men holding the mages. 'Get him on that carthorse and away from here.'

'I'm sorry,' said the mage to his doomed colleague.

The man shook his head. 'Don't be. These b.a.s.t.a.r.ds can never defeat us.'

'But you won't live to see whether that's true, will you?' said Selik.

'I am proud you think me so dangerous that you have to kill me.'

'Kill you?' said Selik, a smile creeping over his face. 'No, no, that would be too easy. All I can promise is that you will die unless you are very, very fortunate.'

The Black Wings captain saw the mage's eyes flicker, his bravado punctured, and all he could do, while his colleague was loaded, hands bound, onto the carthorse and away with a guard of six, was watch while his fate unfolded in front of him.

Quickly, the cart was stood on its end and braced, its wheels facing in the direction of the mage lands to the north-west. The traces and lines from the harness were cut into four pieces and the mage strung upright between the four wheels with his clothes ripped from him to leave only a loincloth. Selik watched it all dispa.s.sionately, a slight twinge of disappointment at the bearing of the mage, who didn't struggle or protest. When he was secured, Selik unsheathed a dagger and walked slowly over to him, the mage's eyes never leaving his.

'There are people like you all over this land. Left as warnings to others of your kind that the Black Wings are growing. That we will pursue you relentlessly, that you will atone for what you have done and that we will not stop until the evil of magic is scrubbed from Balaia. You, at least, will not join the war.'

The mage spat at him, the blood-veined saliva catching Selik on the cheek and running down the side of his face. He merely smiled.

'You'll regret that when your thirst becomes unbearable.'

'Come closer and I'll do it again. I'm not afraid to die.'

'Lucky for you,' said Selik, his mouth bent into a grotesque sneer. 'Our trouble is that there can be no warning without a message. And, since we've run right out of parchment, we need to use a somewhat different medium.' He turned to his men. 'Hold him still and shut his useless mouth.'

Black Wings moved in and hands pressed on the mage's head, shoulders, knees and the top of his legs, rendering him immobile. Selik walked up slowly, staring deep into the mage's eyes, watching the fear begin to grow and the first cracks appear in his bearing.

Taking the tip of his dagger between his thumb and first two fingers, he began to carve letters on the mage's chest, letting the blade bite deep, feeling his human canvas heave and hearing choked cries through his closed mouth.