Thamos had insisted on leading the charge. His aura had said it had something to do with Rojer’s wives, but the cause was irrelevant. No words would sway the count, so Arlen wasted none trying.

To one side of the count galloped Captain Gamon, and to the other, Gared Cutter. Gared had never been the most proficient rider, but he’d apparently taken training among the Krasians, and managed to keep his seat even as Rockslide trampled corelings, the magic in his hooves making him wild with power. Gared, too, was drinking in the magic, laying about him with his huge axe. With a single swing, he took the head from a field demon that would have taken the count’s horse out from under him.

Slightly off to the side, Renna paced them easily on Promise. The horse would still not be saddled, but Renna had got the mare to consent to a few warded harnesses to let her keep her seat and add some protection to the wards painted on the horse’s dappled coat.

The cavalry skewered or trampled dozens of field demons, killing few but leaving all dazed and unprepared for the foot soldiers who swept in behind, led by Dug and Merrem Butcher. The pair earned their name as they cut corelings apart with the same practised ease they sectioned a pig.

But then the lightning demons came down, strafing the battlefield with uniform precision, and Arlen knew the nearby mind demon had taken control.

An instant later he was back in the graveyard, performing a second Knowing on the crate to hold in his mind as he carried it down into the greatward, then deeper still, into the crust of the Ala.

All around, paths opened to his senses. Many led to the surface, while others tempted to take him farther down towards the Core, where all the magic in the world flowed from.

He ignored them, focusing on those heading upward. None were truly straight, but some reached the surface quickly, while others drifted for miles before making their way to the open air. He tasted these, sensing where they led. It was easy in the between-state – sending tendrils of himself out to explore while he stayed in one place – but there were thousands of intersecting paths, a maze one could get lost in for a lifetime and more.

Despite the confusion, the demon wards were easy to find after a few moments of concentration. The keyward of their net drew power like a whirlpool, starting at the fangs. He let the current pull him along, and was surprised at its power. For a moment he feared being sucked into it fully, his entire being devoured by the demon warding’s power. He gathered his will and pulled back just in time, finding the closest outlet to the surface and solidifying. Once on the surface he again felt the mind’s presence for an instant, but then his protective wards re-formed and his mind was cut off. He hoped it was too brief for them to notice him in turn. He pulled his personal magic as deep within himself as possible, and drew wards of confusion in the air around him to mask his presence.

He approached the greatward, feeling its power of repulsion. His part-demon nature allowed him to get closer than a normal human might, but he was still kept a good twenty yards from its border. Within, he could see the rock and wood demons working tirelessly to deepen and strengthen the lines. Other corelings patrolled the area.

He placed the crate as close to the fangs as he could, then put a foot on it and shoved hard enough to carry it much of the remaining distance without detonating. He might have thrown it, but he was getting stronger all the time, and didn’t trust his aim. If he overshot, or the crate fell into a trench and didn’t detonate on impact, it would all be for nothing.

The crate skidded to a stop perhaps ten feet from the edge. Close enough. Arlen raised a hand to draw a heat ward.

But then there was a roar, and he turned to see dozens of field demons charging his way. Arlen frowned. Despite his efforts to mask his presence, he obviously could not evade detection fully this close to the demons’ centre of power. The local mind might not have been able to pinpoint him, but it sensed enough to make it worth sending a reap to sweep the area. Whether they saw him or not, there was nowhere to hide on the open ground.

As the first talons reached him, Arlen dematerialized, meaning to let them pass, re-form, and set off the thundersticks before it was too late.

But in the instant he entered the between-state, the local mind was on him.

He felt the pressure of the demon’s will, but Arlen had faced this struggle for dominance before. He gathered his will and struck back, only to run into an impenetrable wall.

The greatward.

Too late, Arlen realized his mistake. The ward was more than just a physical defence and a source of power. It also protected the coreling prince’s mind from unwanted intrusion much as Arlen’s own mind wards did for him.

He threw himself at the barrier again and again, suddenly understanding for the first time in his life precisely how One Arm and the other demons that had tried to claw through Arlen’s Messenger circles over the years must have felt. Angry. Frustrated. Desperate.

Vulnerable.

In that moment of first despair, the demon struck back at him, reaching beyond the wards with no real exposure to himself, like Wonda Cutter standing at the edge of the greatward picking off corelings with her bow.

The coreling prince batted his defences aside effortlessly, seizing control of Arlen’s mind and teaching him how arrogant he had been to think himself a fair match for one of these creatures.

Renna was right. He’d been lucky in the last contest, and even so the demon would have defeated him if not for her. For all he’d learned, he was still a novice at a form of combat the mind demons trained to all their lives.

Arlen pulled all his strength and will together, trying desperately to solidify. If he could do that, his mind wards would activate, and he would only have a few hundred corelings between him and the safety of the Hollow’s wardnet.

Only.

But the mind demon kept his atoms dispersed. Arlen found a path to the Core and tried to flee out of range, but that, too, was in vain. The demon held him fast, forcibly draining the excess magic from him. Even as mist, Arlen discovered he could know pain, and if he’d had voice, he would have screamed as the power was sucked out of him.

He thought the demon meant to kill him then and there, but it relented just before the last of his energy was depleted, leaving him weak as if he had lost too much blood, helpless as he heard the demon in his mind.

A fool, to leave his centre of power and confront us, the coreling thought to the others of its kind.

He must have thought his drones would distract us in their futile assault, another replied.

Fool, the third agreed. Arlen could sense their mental presence drawing closer, adding their own power to the already overwhelming press of his original assailant.

Must get free. He struggled again. Others don’t stand a chance without me.

He fears for his drones! The thought brought amusement from the three minds. How did one such as this defeat one of our brethren?

We shall soon Know. The thought was punctuated by a hunger greater than anything Arlen had ever felt. Knowledge and experience were power to these creatures, and all of them were eager for the feast as they laid open his mind, reading through his thoughts the way Arlen might thumb through a history book.

They walked through his memories, forcing him to relive every powerful experience and sipping his emotions in his moments of deepest pain, weakness and degradation, savouring them like fine Angierian brandy.

Suddenly he was ten years old again, lying on the ground with his arms covering his head as Cobie Fisher literally kicked the piss out of him. Cobie, Gart, and Willum Fisher had taken it in turns kicking him for talking to Willum’s sister Aly, who was twelve. Arlen had secretly shined on her, thinking her kinder than the Fisher boys who regularly tormented him.