The Dusk Watchman

CHAPTER 42

They walked for what felt like an age. Isak dragged down the pace as far as he could, but whenever Ruhen got too far ahead, Tiniq or Ilumene would hammer at Isak’s broad back with the pommels of their knives — never hard enough to break his bones, but the pain of the blows lingered long after he had dragged himself up again.

The tunnels twisted and turned, forever descending into the bowels of the Land. The oppressive warmth of the tunnels grew and the mixture of sweat and blood dried stickily across his back while the silver chain remained a hot presence against his skin. They passed through another chamber, then a third and fourth, and each time another squad of soldiers was left to hide in the side tunnels, ready to ambush anyone passing through. Twice Ruhen turned back from the path he had taken, doubling back without haste to take another instead. No one questioned his decisions; Ilumene and Venn were the only people even to speak to the child, and it was clear from the brief responses that Ruhen was not interested in conversation. He was too close to his goal; from time to time his serene face flowered briefly into moments of rare animation and expectation before he caught himself.

Isak kept his eyes down, exhausted and pained by the burden of Termin Mystt, enfeebled by the proximity of Ghenna and the ache it sparked deep in his bones. As they descended he felt the silver chain as Death’s final judgement, the weight of his sins bearing down on him as he came ever closer to the Dark Place of Torment. At last he realised they were in a wider tunnel than before, one that was slowly broadening until it suddenly opened out into a vast cavern that made even Ruhen stop in wonder. Isak heard Ilumene breath an oath at the sight, stopping as he stared up and all around.

Isak took the opportunity to sink to his knees.

The cavern was barely brighter than the chambers they had passed through, but magic filled the air with such intensity that Isak felt a stab of pain in his gut. Behind the great twisted scar on his stomach a fire burned, reminding him of the agonising wound that had killed him. He screwed up his eyes in pain, moaning piteously, but Ilumene kicked him in the ribs and sent him sprawling. His eyes flashed open and he stared up at the roof far above.

The cavern was several hundred feet high, with dozens of natural pillars all studded with crystal formations that glinted with orange-red light. As Isak hauled himself upright he realised the light was coming from the centre of the cavern, fifty yards off, and obscured by pillars wider than a man’s outstretched arms. Through them he glimpsed movement, flickering orange flames reflecting off the stone surfaces. Ahead were carved columns marked with ancient runes and angular images.

‘Come,’ Ruhen called to those behind him, ‘the sacrifice has begun. Soon we will be ready.’

Under Ilumene’s urging Isak shuffled forward, trying to make more sense of the cavern before he slipped and crashed face-first to the floor again. His jailers wasted no time in beating the white-eye brutally until he cried out in agony.

Then Ruhen’s voice stopped them short. ‘Enough. Let him rise.’

Isak stayed on the ground a little longer, curled protectively as best he could, expecting the violence to return, until he looked up tentatively and saw the boy with one white eye staring at him. ‘I promised you peace if you do not interfere,’ Ruhen said, the swirl of shadows in his eyes never more obvious than in the cavern’s half-light, ‘and torment if you defy me. But trust is not easily won; faith is never your first instinct.’

Isak grunted in response, unable to form a coherent reply, but Ruhen said, ‘Let this be a gesture to you. They will not harm you unless you break my faith. I am to be a God this day, so let mercy be my first act.’

Isak stared at Ruhen, momentarily forgetting the pain as the unexpected words slowly fitted into place in his mind. ‘Mercy?’ he croaked in disbelief.

The shadow-eyed boy smiled. ‘You think I do not know what mercy is? King Emin might not believe it, but he has long been my enemy. When you are at war your enemy sees you just as a monster, you understand? A creature incapable of reason, abhorrent in all ways. How else could you fight them?’

‘What about the rest, my friends? Mercy for them too?’

‘Most will die,’ Ruhen said, ‘but such is the nature of war. You fear eternal retribution? I admit I do not know what Godhood is like, but I choose to believe petty revenge would stain my victory. Those who oppose me must be dealt with, but to cast them all into Ghenna out of spite?’ He turned away and headed for the centre of the vast cavern.

‘We have time yet, Isak,’ Ruhen called back as Harlequins began to make their way between the stone pillars. ‘Rest a while, then join me with your Gods. We stand at the heart of the Land, on the cusp of a new age. History is born anew this day; the fulcrum of this moment can be permitted a few breaths to savour a purpose fulfilled.’

Vesna snatched up a sword that stood in his path, buried in the chest of a dead soldier. He ducked a blow and brought his own longsword up under the movement, dragging it across the Devoted’s chest with Gods-granted strength, opening the man up. The next attack he caught on his new weapon, shoving the soldier back and slashing at his face. The man stumbled and fell before the blow could connect, toppling backwards over the corpse of a comrade.

The Ghosts on either side of Vesna continued forward, their glaives swinging and falling in terrible rhythm. The fallen man was trampled, unnoticed, by the Farlan elite who squeezed the breath from his lungs before a heavy boot landed on his neck.

Vesna was the heart of their relentless march, shouting himself hoarse in between savage assaults on the Devoted. The remains of the first line were butchered and they drove on into the second, faltering on the slope as the effort sapped their limbs and arrows smacked down on all sides. But a renewed surge came behind Vesna, silent and swift, and it drained the resolve from the faces ahead of him. He didn’t need to turn to see the Legion of the Damned behind him, just charged on ahead of them, casting terrible flashes of light into their ranks to disrupt them before the wave struck.

Shields dropped, spear-heads lowered as yellow flames danced over tabards and tunics. Vesna ran forward with a half-scalped man at his side, grey, desiccated skin flapping loose as the undead mercenary chopped down with his enormous axe and almost split the first defender in two. Vesna took the one beside him, but blinded by spraying blood, the man never saw his own death as Vesna impaled him, shoving him bodily him into those behind.

The ranks were deep enough for most assaults, but Vesna’s veins sparkled with war’s own lifeblood and he punched through them with ease. In his wake came the undead, spreading like rot in a wound, dragging the fractured line apart with every batter and swipe. An arrow smashed into Vesna’s back as he turned to survey the breach, momentarily unable to reach any defenders. The force smacked him forward and he staggered, half-falling against a dead man, who grinned up at him with a broken, hanging jaw.

An arrow protruded from that man’s gullet, but he had no use for talk anyway; the undead soldier shoved Vesna aside and drove on, ruined face no hindrance as he surged down behind the line, chopping with abandon at the rear ranks. Vesna recovered his balance and flexed his shoulders. Feeling no wound, he waved forward the remaining Ghosts at the base of the hill. As he did so, more of the undead jumped past him and Vesna turned to see a counter-attack barrelling down the hillside, several regiments of the reserve charging to seal the breach.

The God-spirit inside him whispered words Vesna didn’t know and an arc of blood-tinted fire whipped across the advancing Devoted as arrows dropped like hunting falcons. The front rank collapsed, cut in two as blood sprayed high and shockingly bright against the threatening sky. Vesna ran to meet those remaining, battering one fear-crazed soldier aside and parrying the spear of another before smashing his vambrace into his chest. The soldier was thrown back as Vesna chopped through the legs of the next, both men savagely finished off by the eager undead.

Behind him came the remaining Ghosts, the foot legion who’d arrived in the wake of his insane direct charge. They swarmed forward after the Legion, almost a thousand men in heavy armour bursting their hearts to ascend the slope, swinging their short-handled glaives. The second line crumpled, split apart and descended into chaos. The archers and remaining reserves behind them raced to stem the tide, but with Vesna holding his ground and the Legion chopping through all who faced them, they could do nothing.

Gasping for air, the Farlan nobleman drove onward; King Emin and his black-clad attendants were close behind as he headed upslope. There would be more at the crest, of that he had no doubt, but the breach was won.

There’s still time.

‘Form square!’ Endine yelled hoarsely, his reedy voice echoing like thunder across the battlefield. The Narkang spearmen ran to obey, the first legion forming a shield-wall in the centre of the dip between rise and hill. On their right the Farlan Ghosts tore into the defending lines, but the Narkang men knew they were not there to help them. Arrows dropped from both sides, the Devoted on the nearside of the rise barely involved in the battle, but also aware they needed to hold their position.

Ahead of the shield-wall, on the open ground past the gap between rise and hill, stood a great huddled mass of white-cloaked figures. It was unclear whether they were armed — or whether Ruhen’s Children posed any threat at all. Although they massively outnumbered the three legions of spearmen, it didn’t look likely that the fanatics would be able to do much at all.

Endine turned to the left flank, where the battle clans were embroiled in savage fighting. The mercenaries were less enthusiastic in their assault, but holding position and tying up the Devoted forces as required. They didn’t need a breach there, despite the efforts of Wentersorn and Morghien, trying to draw Vorizh into the fighting. So as long as the left held their ground and prevented the remaining cavalry from encircling the centre, their job would be done.

For a moment he stood still, overwhelmed by the cacophony that surrounded him. The breach on the hill was clearly marked by a great stain of churned bloody mud. The High Mage felt a sudden, powerful sense of dismay at the sight of the desperate, savage struggles going on all across the field, the piled corpses, the screams of hundreds of injured men and women. The dead, already in their thousands, reminded him of the emptiness of that victory at Moorview.

Then a memory of his great friend, the oversized mage Shile Cetarn, filled his mind. They had been colleagues and rivals for years. Cetarn had always been cheerful and ebullient, even as they parted and he walked to his death. The man had been imperfect and arrogant, blinkered and stubborn — and he had been a hero.

When Death’s winged attendants called to him, Cetarn had not blinked or faltered. What more could a man ask for but be remembered like that? I’ll see you soon, my friend, Endine thought, drawing once more on the Skull he carried. Above him the air erupted into flame. Soon, but not yet. I’ll keep you waiting a while longer now.

Amidst the chaos, Amber found a moment of peace. As he moved through the ranks, cutting, hacking, battering his way through, his mind receded into calm. The pain of memory was gone, the fear and exhaustion of daily life had faded into the background. No black birds lingered on the edges of his vision, no ache of their presence drained the strength from his limbs.

He saw only the enemy ahead of him — the splintered shields and spear-studded bodies, the terror on their faces, the shocking scarlet of blood on the pale ground — as the Menin drove steadily forward. They were almost silent, lost in the slaughter as their God had taught them, unaware and disinterested in what happened beyond this fight. The Land could have burned around them and the Menin heavy infantry would not care; until the enemy were all dead or the last frantic defender fell, they would keep to their task.

Amber lunged, his right-hand scimitar scraping across a Devoted’s shield as his left-hand blade hacked into the man’s neck and he fell. Another took his place, only to be smashed from his feet by the infantryman on Amber’s right. Another volley of arrows flashed down and his comrade was caught in the shoulder. He reeled and hissed with rage, but continued to push forward. Another glanced off Amber’s pauldron and clattered against the man behind him even as a ricochet skewed wildly past his face and struck someone else.

The line was fragmented, their order barely holding as more soldiers pushed past Amber, eager to be in the thick of the fighting. The first of those died in a heartbeat as an arrow pierced his neck; the man died standing in the spot his general had been about to take.

Amber felt the blood spatter against his helm, but this was not the time to hesitate. He shoved the corpse forward and as it toppled it tangled the legs of a Devoted officer for long enough to let Amber stab him in the face. The man fell shrieking, his mouth a butchered ruin. Amber, numb, trod on the officer’s head and used him as a platform to attack the next.

‘Reform!’ came the shout behind him, the cry taken up by the sergeants up and down the blood-soaked band of ground, and he looked around, momentarily confused, until he realised the enemy were all dead. Arrows still crashed down on all sides, and he watched a Menin raise his sword with a victorious yell, only to have one thwack straight into the eye-hole of his helm. His head snapped back, his limbs twitching as the arrow drove deep into his brain, then he dropped to his knees, pitched face-down into the mud and was still.

As the rear ranks moved up past Amber, he watched the hail of arrows clatter onto their upraised shields. Still nothing could stir him until the sight of Nai running towards him, blood running from a cut down his cheek, awakened something else inside him, reminding him of their purpose there.

He looked up the slope. It would be a hard tramp, one few commanders would want to assault had there been only a legion of defenders ahead; as it was, there were at least five: five thousand men there, bracing themselves. He raised his sword as the new front rank locked shields and the disordered remnants of his own moved in behind them.

‘No surrender!’ he roared, and his shout taken up by the thousands all around him. ‘We are Menin — we will show these cowards how true warriors fight!’

They started up the slope with steady, careful steps. Arrows smacked down, but the soldiers didn’t even flinch at the impacts. Amber pushed his way back to the front, ready to enter the fray again when there was space. If he was fatigued, he couldn’t feel it. If he was wounded, the pain was another part of him that had receded into the shadows. He would kill, and kill again: no retreat, no rest.

Over the battlefield came the rumble of thunder; the quick bright stab of lightning cut across the sky. Amber felt his lips draw back in a ghastly grin as the air prickled around them. He could feel Karkarn now — the hand of Death on his shoulder had been replaced with the War God’s.

‘Our God is with us!’ one man shouted nearby. ‘His blessings fall upon us!’

‘Karkarn bear witness!’ Amber cried in response, a refrain from an ancient saga of the Menin. ‘The blood we spill, the death we wield — we are war! We are Menin! ’

As they closed on the second line of Devoted defenders, he could see the fear in their faces.

From horseback, Endine watched the beggars, Ruhen’s Children, approach. It was foolish — it was madness — but they were coming. He couldn’t begin to guess how many, but there were thousands, their torn white clothing flapping in the breeze, their voices joined in some low moaning paean. Above their heads he could see the shimmer and dance of unrestrained magic, a vast power unveiled. The grey dust had coated their skin, lending an inhuman, unnatural paleness to the faces slowly edging towards them.

Endine looked around, trying to fathom the ruse of an unarmed mob advancing on formed-up infantry lines. On his right, the Legion of the Damned and the Ghosts had punched like a lance through the enemy lines, taking the king and Legana to their target on the hill, while beyond them the Menin were steadily butchering those opposing them, uncaring of the toll on their own numbers.

The left hadn’t fared as well; Morghien and Wentersorn had exhausted themselves driving off the grey dragon and Vorizh’s wyverns. Even with the Skulls in their hands, neither was mage enough to inflict the damage needed to gain the rise, and the mercenaries were slowly being forced back. Behind the crowd of Ruhen’s Children he could see the cavalry, the battles swift and savage, but nothing that looked conclusive to him.

‘They’re coming, sir!’ yelled an officer, and he and Ebarn drew once more on their Crystal Skulls. Pain screamed down his neck and he almost blacked out at the furious surge of magic running through his body, but he drove it back. Spitting cords of light erupted from his up-stretched arm, wrenched unwillingly back on themselves, until a roiling ball of energy spun above him.

He hurled it towards the mob just before Ebarn scattered dozens of twisting black shapes into the air. The ball of light struck first, exploding like a siege-weapon in the heart of the mob and tossing bodies high. The bright cords flung out in all directions, suddenly released from the magic containing them, crashing out through the mob to set light to dozens more.

The mob faltered just as Ebarn’s magical arrows darted down with the angry zip of hornets, tearing into unprotected flesh with terrible ease, but neither spell stopped them; the dead fell unnoticed and were trampled in the mob’s eagerness to reach the army. The voices grew in intensity and volume, building to an uncontrolled rage as they quickened their advance.

‘Ready!’ called an officer from somewhere through the haze of burnt air surrounding Endine, ‘take the impact!’

And the mob smashed into the shield-wall with a crash that made the ground shake. Endine felt the blow in his bones, and for a moment his control of the magic wavered, fading into nothing as tiny claws of pain dug into his scalp. He saw the enemy clearly now, and heard the panicked shouts from his soldiers, for they didn’t look human: deathly white and hairless, they were more like daemons of the daytime.

They hurled themselves forward with terrible speed, talons raking at armour and bursting through iron-bound shields. Endine saw one spearman drive his weapon into a man’s shoulder. The point slammed home — then glanced up and away, leaving only a grey groove along the white bony plate that covered his chest.

‘They’re swamping us,’ Ebarn shouted, her face frantic as she watched the shield-wall buckle.

The Brotherhood mage was hurling bundles of darting arrows and they were killing their targets, but Ruhen’s Children ignored the deaths and spilled around the shield-wall facing them, desperate to throw themselves at the spearmen. The two mages sat on horseback at the heart of the square, but suddenly Endine felt very alone. Ebarn was right: they would soon be encircled by the white monsters. Even as he recovered himself and cast more burning energies, he saw figures scrambling over the shield-wall itself. The reserve squads ran to meet them, enveloping their furious charges with impaling spears, but it took a hail of blows to fell each one.

Ebarn shrieked with rage as she drew deeper on the Skull and Endine felt a jolt in his stomach as he realised she couldn’t possibly survive such power, but then he followed suit. The Land went white around them as bolts of lightning split the air, scorching men and monsters alike as the two opened themselves completely. Then the shield-wall collapsed under the weight of the fanatics and a great animal howl went up. Endine could barely see what was happening; fire licked the edges of his robes and the horse beneath him screamed in fear.

A group of the monsters ran for him and Endine picked them up and tore open their limbs in a spray of greyish blood. More came, and he watched the flailing figures grappling with each other in their bloodlust. He killed dozens with consuming fire, still they came. Distantly he heard Fei Ebarn’s cries cut off as a detonation of rampant energies ripped her apart, but he had no time to look, for his own gaze was dimming as he continued to lash out at the white figures advancing towards him.

Sharp fingers reached for him, tearing through the flesh on his skinny thighs as they tried to pull him down. His horse bucked and wrenched away from the attackers, and Endine continued to fight as his skin went cold and numb. He barely felt the talons digging deeper, and some fell away as he killed them, but even in the blinding storm cloud surrounding him they fought on.

At last he was done, and the Land went from white to grey to black as one final burst of pain erupted from his heart and the talons closed around his ribs. He fell, and all around him, the heart of the Narkang army died.

Daken scooped up a discarded shield and grinned at Vesna. The white-eye had blood running freely from a torn lip and his cheeks were splattered with the deaths of a dozen men. They stood at the crest of the hill with dead and dying men all around then. The rigid lines of defenders had collapsed and the hill was now a free-for-all, a thousand individual battles being fought up and down its slope.

‘Waiting for those dead bastards to get all the glory?’ Daken rasped, brandishing the shield wildly.

Vesna looked back at the Ghosts and Kingsguard struggling forward in their wake, hampered as much by the corpses covering the ground as by the slope. Beyond them they could see the lower line of defenders was still holding against one legion of Kingsguard, while the Menin had slaughtered those in front of them and were pressing the upper line hard. In any normal battle this would have been won; Vesna would be turning inwards to seal the victory and meet the Menin in a double envelopment, but with nowhere to go, the Devoted couldn’t crumple and run. Their only option was to fight to the death, and thousands had already done so.

‘Wait for the king,’ he commanded. ‘We can’t do it alone.’

‘He’d better hurry, then!’ Daken swapped his axe to his shield-hand and thumped his free fist against his chest. ‘Wake up, bitch! You ain’t sleeping through all of this!’

For a moment nothing happened, then Vesna saw faint trails of blue light creep up from around Daken’s breastplate. Four, then a half-dozen or more, the trails wavered uncertainly in the dull daylight until Daken cackled with mad delight and turned towards the standing stones at the hill’s peak.

The hilltop was close to flat, but at its very centre the ground rose up in an approximate circle around the great carved monoliths. More defenders were stationed there: Ruhen’s final line, protecting the entrance to the barrow. From where he stood Vesna could see they were heavily armoured, an elite troop standing with shields locked and weapons ready. There were no archers among them, and for a strange moment Vesna felt a sense of calm: the faint breath before the storm returned.

They had scattered entire divisions. King Emin and his close guard were still fighting in the wake of the Legion’s dwindling but inexhaustible troops. Daken and Vesna, the point of the spear, had driven right through the enemy.

Vesna turned back the way they had come He gasped in horror: the disordered, unarmed mob of Ruhen’s Children had swamped the legions left to protect their centre. One whole side of the square had been engulfed, and even as he watched the rest folded in on themselves.

‘ There is magic on them,’ Karkarn whispered in his ear, ‘ the touch of Aenaris.’

Vesna shuddered. Whatever Ruhen’s Children were now, they had just overrun and crushed several legions of battle-ready soldiers. ‘This is Ruhen’s tactic — he’ll break us from the rear,’ he cried to Daken, then roared, ‘Ozhern!’ his voice amplified with unnatural power, but he received no response from the commander of the Legion.

He ran towards the nearest of the Damned, the Crystal Skull he carried pulsing with warmth. He reached out a hand and grabbed at the air, the flicker of Karkarn’s spirit inside him obeying his unspoken command. The undead mercenary jerked around as he was yanked bodily through the air and hurled towards Vesna, driving his spear into the ground to catch his balance as he hit the earth. Tattered hair fell across the dead man’s face as the weapon was tugged out of the ground.

‘Look!’ Vesna yelled, feeling the War God again stir inside at the mercenary’s hostile poise. He pointed, and after a moment the undead warrior turned towards the rout at the base of the hill, then jerked back towards Vesna with a flash of understanding. In the next moment the entire remaining regiments of undead had broken off and were barrelling headlong down the slope.

‘Emin!’ Vesna yelled, ‘get the regulars to turn and attack them, Kingsguard too!’

The king turned too, visibly startled, by what he saw there. At his side Dashain, one arm hanging limp and useless, barked orders to a captain of the Kingsguard.

‘My mage is dead,’ Emin shouted back. ‘I cannot contact them!’ He cast around for a few moments, then yelled, ‘Legana! Order our regulars to withdraw and engage the centre!’

The Mortal-Aspect stood amidst a pile of corpses, long-knives bloody and an aura of emerald light shining about her. She glanced at the spear legions just starting up the lower slope before returning her piecing gaze to their direction and gesturing: it was done.

Vesna didn’t wait; it would take them a while before anyone was able to react to the orders. Shoring up the rear would mean nothing if they couldn’t break through this final defence and reach Isak in time. Daken had already set off towards the standing stones and Vesna fell in behind the white-eye, realising what the man intended. The blossoming taste of magic filled the air and he hesitated, for a moment not sure if it was Litania, Daken’s own Aspect — but the power far exceeded hers. With a thought he threw out a wild, unfocused mass of energies, just as two enormous detonations crashed down on his shield.

The impact stopped him dead and he rocked back on his heels. The blistering shield above them exploded into a shower of sparks. From behind him he sensed Legana hurling something in response, and the sky turned emerald as she lashed at the standing stones. He gathered his wits and moved on, struggling to catch up with Daken, who was ploughing on regardless. With an effort he threw up another shield around them, a haze of sparks obscuring the hunkered soldiers ahead of them, but in the next moment he realised it was not necessary.

From the standing stones a figure rose up in the air, four fat crackling bands of light driving into the ground beyond the soldiers. He glimpsed a robed figure wreathed in fire, a slender man with white-blond hair, moving away from Vesna towards the rocky back slope of the hill. With Larim dead and two Mortal-Aspects advancing on him, the mage who’d grabbed the dead Menin’s Crystal Skull knew he was outmatched. He was no fanatic, he had no desire to die for his master, so he withdrew, dropping behind the defending soldiers, leaving them to their fate.

Daken, half-crouched behind his shield, charged with a roar as Litania’s trails of blue light reached out to the waiting spears. Vesna stopped and channelled the energy of his own shield towards Daken, throwing the force behind him just as the white-eye reached the line of defenders. Blue sparks burst on the waiting spear-heads, their shafts shattered into splinters and leaving only unarmed men in his path.

Vesna pushed forward and the white-eye was bodily thrown into them, crashing right through the overlapping shields and scattering soldiers left and right.

With Doranei and Forrow as his side, Vesna raced to the breach before the defenders had even worked out what had happened. He cut through the first man and beheaded the next. Doranei turned the other way, attacking the right-hand side of the hole with long, sweeping blows of his star-speckled sword, while Forrow went in after Daken, roaring as though possessed by the mad spirit of his predecessor.

In their wake came the Ghosts, breathing hard but far more skilled than anyone they faced, and close behind came the swift Sisters of Dusk, spreading out around the ring of soldiers while the Ghosts attacked from within. Vesna found himself on flat pavestones, beyond the main line of Devoted, and a Harlequin leaped forward, twin swords whistling through the air. He caught one on his own blade. The other hammered into his pauldron, but the God-blessed armour turned it. Before he could counterattack, the Harlequin had peeled away and was dancing towards a Ghost. He slashed down at the back of the man’s knee and the Ghost faltered, crying out in pain, but he never even had the time to fall before he was spitted in the side. Vesna whipped a fistful of sparks towards the Harlequin, but the figure jinked to the side with inhuman speed. He lunged forward and was parried, but this time Vesna charged on and crashed bodily into the Harlequin. A blade scraped down his armoured side, and then he had driven it from its feet and they fell together, Vesna’s greater weight driving the wind from the Harlequin’s lungs as he landed on it. He head-butted it, and the white mask it wore shattered and fell away as Vesna stabbed his sword into its belly.

The Harlequin spasmed and cried out, its voice high and feminine, and Vesna felt a jolt in his gut at the sound. He looked down and saw a woman’s small features, her face contorted by pain. He hesitated, even as she moved, stabbing the point of her sword into the joint of his armour and driving him off her, his sword tearing out of her gut in a great spray of blood. For a moment they lay side by side, staring into each other’s eyes, and then a boot stamped down on her neck.

‘Get up, you bastard!’ Daken roared, turning as he shouted to swat away a spear with the butt of his axe. He brought the weapon back around and chopped down into the Devoted soldier attacking him, dropping the man with a crunch.

Vesna felt a sharp pain in his side as he fought his way unsteadily to his feet, and then he felt Karkarn invade his mind quite suddenly, and gasped as the War God turned a weapon and cut clean through a man’s arm. The cold, clear soul of a God washed away the grief threatening to consume him.

Vesna staggered back as the God fled again, too weakened to take control for any longer than that, but the sight of the soldier dropping to his knees and shrieking at the wound brought him back to the fight. His side was on fire, but he found himself able to move and fight still, so he drove the pain from his mind and moved on.

All around him the Ghosts and Sisters were butchering the reeling, shattered remnants of the Devoted defenders; their spirit had been broken by their commander’s retreat and Daken’s mad rush. Those still alive, the few score defending the far side of the stones, were driven off and the Ghosts let them go, glad for any moment to catch their breath after the exhausting ascent through the lines.

‘Emin, go!’ Vesna yelled, pointing towards the black, open stairway between the two tallest stones.

‘You’re not coming?’ the king gasped, running up to him. ‘We’ll need you.’

Vesna pointed back the way they had come, and even from this distance they could clearly see their troops falling to the crazed white monsters of Ruhen’s Children. Even as they surveyed the slaughter, he gestured at a Devoted regiment advancing towards them. ‘You need someone watching your back here. The Ghosts need to make a stand, and me with them. You need men who can walk in the shadows down there — Legana’s going with you, Daken, Doranei, Leshi, Shinir — but my place is here. You can handle that shadow’s Harlequins without me.’

As Emin nodded, Vesna saw a line scored down one side of his helm. The king held out a hand. ‘Karkarn chose his Iron General well.’

The Farlan hero faltered as his mind suddenly conjured an image of Tila’s last agonised expression, the remnants of a shattered Harlequin’s mask surrounding her face. He took the hand. ‘Get it done and get out,’ he said gruffly. ‘We’ll be needing a great king after.’

Emin ducked his head and tore off his boots, the Brotherhood and Legana’s Sisters following suit. Before Vesna could turn back to the fight, another man ran up to him, heaving for breath and covered in blood.

‘Too old for this shit,’ he, tearing his helm from his face and sucking in great lungfuls of air. ‘Cut my boots for me, will you?’

‘Carel, stay here,’ Vesna ordered, but the veteran just spat on the ground and straightened up.

‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’

‘You’ll die!’ Vesna protested.

‘My boy’s down there!’ Carel shouted, ‘and I’m going.’ He started to run the edge of his notched sword over his boots, trying to slice the laces open and get his feet free, but the weapon had blunted and wouldn’t cut properly.

‘Carel, listen to me.’

The old man dropped his sword and grabbed Vesna with his one hand. ‘You listen to me, boy!’ he shouted, ‘I’m going, an’ that’s the end of it! You want to part on bad terms, that’s your choice.’

Vesna stared into his eyes a moment longer, then bowed his head. He pulled his dagger from his belt and bent to slash Carel’s boots open. He dragged them off Carel’s feet and ripped open his leggings so the tattoos were exposed. ‘I don’t want to part that way,’ he said, ‘I’d rather call you brother before the end.’

Unexpectedly Carel embraced him. ‘Aye, brother it is. I never meant those words I said back in Tirah. You know what grief does to a man.’

Vesna nodded, unable to speak.

‘See you in the Herald’s Hall,’ Carel added, breaking away from the Mortal-Aspect and retrieving his sword with a grunt. ‘Put in a good word for me, y’hear?’

With that he was off, half-running, half-limping towards the stairway where most of the Brotherhood had already entered.

‘Goodbye, brother,’ Vesna whispered, filled with sudden certainty that he wouldn’t see the ageing warrior again. He shook himself, then shouted, ‘Right you bastards! Form line! ’ The Iron General looked around at his remaining soldiers. Some three hundred Ghosts out of the two thousand who’d ridden to Moor-view had reached the top with him. No doubt there were more left back on the slope, still fighting, but three hundred would have to be enough.

‘Well, brothers,’ he called out as they started to get into position, ‘looks like we’ve found a good place to die. Let’s give the bards something to sing about, eh?’

And all around him, the Farlan battle hymn started up again.