The Dusk Watchman

CHAPTER 5

In the grounds of Moorview Castle every possible lantern and torch had been lit to banish the shadows of evening. Ghosts patrolled the walls, barefoot and silent as they savoured the witch of Llehden’s magic upon their bodies. The sky was cloudless and the deepest of blues, punctured by the brightest stars and the lesser moon, Kasi, which lined the stone walls with silver.

‘Not a vessel,’ King Emin whispered to himself. Such was the hush his voice carried to all of the forty or so people there. ‘Not a tool or lamb for the sacrifice, but shadow incarnate.’

‘Still a vessel,’ Isak said, reluctantly looking up from the fire. ‘Azaer’s just a shadow, nothing more.’

‘So how do you kill a shadow?’ Emin asked bitterly. Recalling a conversation he’d had with Legana on the subject, he added, ‘Preferably by giving it everything it wants, then twisting that against it.’

‘What sort of a question’s that?’ Vesna interjected. The Mortal-Aspect flexed his black-iron fingers restlessly and reached for a jug of wine. Just as he touched it he changed his mind and withdrew. ‘A shadow can’t be harder to kill than a God, and we have power enough to do that.’ Karkarn’s Iron General raised his armour-clad hand to emphasise his point. When he’d tried to return the Skull of Hunting to Isak, the white-eye had shaken his head sadly and pushed the artefact back, pressing it against Vesna’s vambrace until it moulded itself around the armour as a clear crystal band. Now, unbidden by its new owner, the band around his wrist shone with an inner light that made the Mortal-Aspect stand out even more amidst his mortal companions.

‘Azaer has taken a mortal form,’ the witch of Llehden said from Isak’s side where she sat close with Legana and Mihn, ‘stolen from its owner while still in the womb, most likely, but that does not make the shadow mortal. More likely it possesses the body in the same way a daemon would, and can give it up with ease.’

‘So what, then? It’s weaker than a God, so how can it be so hard to kill?’

‘Not hard to kill,’ Emin said, ‘hard to find, hard to get to, hard to pin down. How do you catch a shadow that can fade from sight?’ He tossed the remains of his cigar into the fire and reached into his brigandine, from which he extricated a slim grey book bound in tarnished metal. Beside him Doranei watched the book warily, as though expecting it to bite him, while continuing to pour liquor down his throat.

‘However,’ Emin continued, raising the book, ‘we may not have to. There is a final arbiter that no daemon or shadow could run from, that extends beyond the physical. Kill a boy with Termin Mystt and no soul inside will be able to escape its power.’

Vesna regarded him incredulously. ‘Your recklessness with the balance of the Land astonishes me. Coming from Isak I can understand it; he was born to upset the order of things and he’s a headstrong white-eye! But you — don’t you know any restraint or caution?’

‘Can you think of another solution?’

‘Yes! Kill the child and his disciples, set their plans back a decade at least and give ourselves time to prepare properly.’

‘It is too late for that,’ Mihn said unexpectedly from Isak’s lee. His voice carried a strange authority that stopped the argument dead. He stood and looked around at the tired, surprised faces around him. Mihn was normally like a ghost at Isak’s side; silent and observing. It was why the witch of Llehden had tattooed him the way she had, to make greatest use of the man he was. As Emin watched him capture their attention by his stance alone, he reminded himself that Mihn had been trained as a Harlequin; shy and unassuming he might be by nature, but addressing an audience was in his blood.

‘The Gods are weakened, the cults undermined. We cannot allow it to continue this way or we serve Azaer’s purpose. In Tirah the cults almost sparked civil war. From all directions we hear that priests have been murdered — how many other cities will be like Scree and try to drive out the Gods? Reports from Byora say that is the case there; consider how many prayers the Gods would receive if we let this play out for five years more.’

‘But to bring into play the Key of Magic too?’ Vesna protested. ‘The weapon eclipses even a Crystal Skull for power — and it isn’t just Death’s own weapon; it’s a part of the Land’s very fabric.’

He appealed to Isak directly, knowing the decision was ultimately his. ‘Isak, the part of me that’s a God fears Termin Mystt being used by either side in this war — fears it being merely present. It’s a fundamental piece of the Land, older than mortal life, old when the Age of Myths was still young!’

Isak shook his head. ‘That doesn’t matter now; we’re too far gone down the path. This Land will be remade; it only remains to decide who’ll do so and how.’

‘How could we even use it?’ Vesna continued, refusing to give up so easily. ‘Who could wield it, me? You? No mortal can touch it without having their sanity stripped away.’

‘No living man,’ Isak corrected with a mad, crooked smile, ‘but what about one who is only half-alive?’

‘And only half-sane!’ Vesna snapped.

His words made Isak smile, and General Daken laughed out loud from the sofa that had been carried out for him. The white-eye’s injuries had opened up again under the strain of the ritual, but he had refused to be left inside when there was drinking to be done.

‘Half-sane too,’ Mihn agreed, ‘but most importantly, carrying the Crystal Skull aligned to Death. We know already they act as buffers for the mind, and of all the Skulls, Ruling should be best able to protect Isak.’

‘This is all still conjecture surely? Gambles and guesswork with the most powerful object in creation — you’re mad! You have no concept of the power you propose to use as a plaything.’

‘It’s educated conjecture,’ King Emin argued, speaking louder than before. ‘Shile Cetarn and Tomal Endine working together had few rivals in the West. Their work has surpassed anything I’ve ever read bar Verliq’s own writings. Couple that with the power of the witch of Llehden, perhaps the greatest of her kind alive today, the insight of a demi-God and Isak — a man who’s passed through death and was born to be the Gods’ own catalyst of change…’

Vesna hesitated and looked round at the faces of those who’d clearly been party to the plan’s formulation. Morghien, the man of many spirits, was swigging brandy from a bottle he was sharing with Doranei; Legana and Ehla were both as impassive as ever, while Endine himself was still unconscious after his efforts during the battle.

‘So what’s there to worry about then?’ he asked bitterly.

‘Catastrophic failure and death,’ the rather-drunk Doranei supplied helpfully, raising his bottle in toast of the notion. ‘And half-vampire children, maybe.’

Only the men of the Brotherhood and Daken managed to find that funny; to Vesna it was a knife to the gut. He rose to leave, visions of Tila and the life they had planned together filling his mind. Without bothering to bow to the king he headed for the lower gate, suddenly desperate to be outside the confining, crowded walls of Moorview. His chest felt tight and constrained. Just as he passed beyond the lit area of grounds his vision blurred and he stumbled forward on the cut-up ground, barely catching himself in time. When a soldier reached out automatically, the Mortal-Aspect lurched away, unable to bear the touch of another person, even if it meant falling flat on his face.

He walked on and ducked through the sally-port to the grounds beyond. There were Kingsguard camped all around. As he marched on through them towards the lower meadow, planning to cross the ditch to reach the moor proper, he heard a horn sound from one of the pickets. His divine-touched eyes caught movement in the darkness beyond the ditch: not fighting, but confusion of some sort.

At the sounding of the horn, half-a-dozen squads converged on the forward picket, weapons at the ready. Vesna tasted the air and knew in his bones there was no army out there, even as he recalled the king’s scryer, Holtai, tell them exactly that earlier. He stopped. No army, but something strange on the wind; something he didn’t recognise and muted by the enduring stink of the battlefield, but even for a man aligned to the God of War it overrode the shed blood and spilled bowels.

Vesna advanced towards the disruption, barely aware of the complaining voices coming from the Kingsguard’s tents as the horn sounded again. It wasn’t an attack alarm so no one raced from their beds, but it signalled that strangers had been sighted, and it was loud and persistent enough to wake the soldiers who’d turned in at sunset. As he got nearer Vesna saw a party of soldiers was advancing towards him, marching up the path to the castle and escorted by squads of Narkang troops. A larger group corralled by the picket out on the moor itself appeared to be doing nothing but waiting, so Vesna returned his attention to the party in front of him.

When they were some twenty yards off he realised with a start they were Menin officers, judging by their size and uniforms; what was more, they were led by a dark-furred figure who was surely no human.

‘So General Gaur leads his men back,’ Vesna mused. ‘Better than starving on the moor, I suppose.’

The elusive scent on the wind grew momentarily stronger and Vesna took a startled step back as the smell of hot, bitter ashes filled his nose before the breeze carried it away. Underlying it all was the stink of rot that came swiftly after any battle in the hot sun, but it was the first aroma that set Vesna’s fingers itching for his sword. The divine thread inside him recoiled at it, sensing something evil in the air.

He looked back at the castle. It was still peaceful and quiet. The sounded horn had attracted a few guards to watch from the battlements, but there was no frantic activity.

‘You, soldier,’ Vesna called, pointing at the nearest man to him. ‘Go to the king, tell him I think there’s something strange coming.’

The soldier turned and Vesna saw sweeping curves of blue on his cheek, marking him as one of General Daken’s troops. Litania the Trickster had marked all the officers of his cavalry strike-force and, according to Daken, the Aspect of Larat would be working her way through the enlisted soon enough. The man was clearly no officer, though he had a fine sword hanging from his belt, a sabre with Menin markings on the scabbard.

‘Aye, sir. Strange, sir?’

‘Just run, tell them to be on guard.’

The cavalryman bobbed his head and sprinted off, his plundered sabre flapping at his heels. Vesna returned his attention to the approaching Menin. General Gaur was accompanied by six men, all officers, though their uniforms were torn and filthy and they walked like men beaten — unlike the beastman, who held himself proudly.

Vesna reminded himself that the heavy infantry had been the elite of the Menin troops; Gaur had been in command of the cavalry or he’d never have escaped the field. The rest might be officers, but they commanded the weakest units in the army.

When they were twenty yards off Vesna put his hand on his pommel and called out to the group and their escort, ‘That’s far enough. Stop there!’

The squads flanking the Menin stopped dead, but when their charges failed to halt they hurried to make up the ground and get in front. Even then, and with spears half-levelled, the troops had difficulty persuading Gaur to stop. The beastman walked right up to the point of one soldier’s weapon and in imperfect Farlan called out, ‘I speak to your king. I offer surrender.’ Up close the beastman’s fur looked lighter, black brushed with white, but not through age; rather, it looked like Arian, the Land’s third moon, was shining down on Gaur on Silvernight.

‘You can offer it to me instead,’ Vesna replied in Menin, the dialect coming easily to the Gods-blessed soldier. ‘Is there a mage among you?’

‘You are the Mortal-Aspect?’ Gaur said, ignoring the question.

‘I am.’ Vesna took a step forward. ‘And you are most likely one of those responsible for the death of my bride, so do not test my patience or you’ll not live to see the king.’

As though to emphasise his point the faint light of the Skull glowed bright as a flicker of anger raced through Vesna’s body. His words seemed to terrify the officers behind Gaur, but the beastman regarded him with what appeared to be a complete lack of interest, though it was hard to make out the emotions of a creature he’d never seen before, the thick fur and tusks hiding most expression. The beastman still wore his battle-dress. Blood matted his fur and streaked his breastplate, and the vambrace and gauntlet of his left arm were missing entirely.

‘There is no mage among us,’ Gaur said. ‘Menin do not send mages to offer surrender.’

‘But you’re not Menin,’ Vesna said sharply, his hand tightening on his sword. ‘You’re some sort of hybrid race the Menin keep as pets.’

He stared straight into Gaur’s bronze-speckled eyes, hoping the beastman would rise to the insult, but he didn’t appear to notice. His eyes were vacant, as dulled as an addict who’d given up on life.

‘My heart is Menin; my master, Lord-’ Gaur faltered.

Vesna saw Gaur’s eyes flicker, and he felt a similar ache as he also sought the Menin lord’s name in his mind, but for Gaur it intensified and became waves of pain. The weight of grief struck with the force of a blow and the beastman shuddered and sagged under it all.

Insults he fails to note, but he still feels, Vesna realised. His mind is occupied by one thing alone. I could spit on his mother’s grave right now and he would hardly care.

‘I am a general of the Menin armies,’ Gaur said eventually, his rasping voice quieter than before. ‘I conduct myself accordingly.’

‘You act as any Menin-trained dog would,’ Vesna said contemptuously, ‘the chosen tribe of the War God, who prefer to win victory by trickery, who employ enemies of the Gods to assassinate your rivals. Your conduct might be as expected of a Menin officer, but that means little of value.’

Gaur again ignored the barb. ‘Am I to be prevented from meeting King Emin?’ he asked. ‘Does your king fear to face me?’

‘Not my king,’ Vesna growled, stepping closer, ‘and I couldn’t give a shit what he thinks of you. There’s some stink in the air that I don’t like. You move another step further without my permission and I’ll kill the lot of you where you stand.’

While the Menin officers cringed, the beastman looked at Vesna as though he’d not even heard the threat, let alone was unafraid of it. But before he could speak again, a voice called from the direction of the castle, and Mihn appeared, alone, come to investigate anything so strange that a Mortal-Aspect would send a vague warning before meeting it.

Vesna was watching Gaur’s eyes, and he saw them twitch Mihn’s way, just for a moment, but it was enough alter the beastman’s demeanour completely. Vesna stepped back and looked at Mihn. The small man was carrying his steel-capped staff as always, but he was barefoot, and wearing only a cropped shirt that displayed his tattoos.

‘The thief,’ hissed a voice from behind Gaur.

Vesna felt time slow as the scent of hot ashes filled his nose once more, and at last he recognised it as the memory of a winter’s day in Irienn Square in Tirah flashed across his mind: the day of Duke Certinse’s trial, and the daemon the duke’s mother had released.

‘Back to your lord!’ Vesna roared, drawing his sword, and his voice spurred Mihn into movement. The dormant spirit of the War God swelled inside the Mortal-Aspect, raising his voice beyond a shout as he called to the whole camp: ‘To arms!’

A slim shape darted from the shadow of one Menin officer, off to Vesna’s left, but he had no time to follow it for two huge figures were unfolding from the darkness. The Crystal Skull on his fist blazed with light as he retreated a few steps, but in the next instant four more had appeared: strange, angular bodies erupting from thin air as the officers fell to the floor.

The largest two advanced on Vesna, their crooked jaws hanging open with anticipation. Each bigger than a bear, their hides were covered in twisted overlapping plates of some green-tinted metal. Each forelimb ended in a pair of two-foot-long hooked talons. One dropped to the ground, preparing to spring, even as a dozen more daemons appeared from the shadows surrounding the Menin.

Gaur stepped forward. His eyes had changed, now slanting sharply and entirely bronze in colour. He shook his body and some of his thick fur fell from his body, revealing pale plates of chitin covering his broad shoulders. Gaur — or the daemon that had once been Gaur — moved forward awkwardly, leaning at an unnatural angle to peer at Vesna. His arm reached jerkily behind his back and tugged his axe free, while a javelin coalesced from the night air into the other hand.

‘An Aspect of a weakened God,’ the creature rasped. ‘Kill him!’

The two bear-like daemons started to circle Vesna, moving in opposite directions, while the rest spread left and right, to get around him and head up to the castle. Gaur gave Vesna a baleful look, then followed his minions, but Vesna didn’t see him go; he was already moving to attack.

The crouching daemon reared back in surprise as Vesna made up the ground in one leap, striking as he landed. His slash opened the beast’s belly and it howled and raked down with its huge talons. Vesna raised his armoured arm and caught the blow on the Skull in an explosion of white sparks.

The daemon shrieked at the contact, but its cries were cut short as Vesna went right and hacked up through its elbow, then, in the blink of an eye, thrust overhand with all his strength, driving the point of his broadsword into the daemon’s throat. The enchanted blade tore right through; there was a great gout of ichor, and the daemon was dead before it hit the ground.

Its comrade dropped to all fours to leap and use its greater size. Vesna was preparing to jump aside, but he hesitated as the power of the Crystal Skull screamed to be used: the image of a white ball of fire appeared in his mind, and in the next moment the night air was split by raging energies.

Before the daemon could move it was consumed by flames so bright even Vesna had to turn away. As it died away one of the squads of guards was running forward, their spears lowered. He left them to finish it off and turned to face the more dangerous enemy.

‘Gaur!’ he roared, running after the pale daemon, obvious amidst the darker bodies of its kin. A gust of chill wind swept down over him, momentarily washing away the stink of daemon from the air, but then the Gaur daemon stopped and faced him, leaving the rest of the daemons scampering on towards the castle.

As the lead demon stood up straight and regarded Vesna, the shining bronze of its eyes burned through the night and Vesna felt a sudden, overpowering sense of loathing. His divine side recoiled from the creature’s stench even as his hand tightened on his sword, aching to strike.

As the two closed the ground between them with quick, careful steps, Vesna recognised the challenge for what it was, and knew that none of the soldiers would dare interfere in this.

‘So the Gods have found themselves another champion,’ the daemon said contemptuously. ‘How long before they cast you aside too?’

‘Long enough.’

‘So you say now, but your Gods are easily bored; soon you will find their promises empty, and you will see that their strength is spent in this Land.’

‘And yet you fear to incarnate fully as you come seeking your revenge. You wear a mortal’s form — that is who will die when I slay you — yet you send your minions without any such protection.’ Vesna laughed. ‘Spare me your coward’s words; my soul is not for sale, daemon.’

‘Are you so sure?’ It stopped and cocked its head at Vesna, tasting the air with its long tongue. ‘You wear grief like a mantle, a loss most raw.’

‘Enough!’ Vesna yelled, feeling the daemon’s words like a punch to the gut. He took a breath, knowing it was feeding off his pain and sensing his vulnerabilities, but unable to suppress his feelings.

‘Would you like to see her face again?’ the daemon continued, its voice husky with laden promise. ‘Hold her in your arms?’

‘Such a thing is beyond your power,’ Vesna growled. ‘It is beyond all power: Death is the final arbiter.’

‘Are you so sure? Her death was recent: I can tell that from the scent of your grief.’ The daemon edged closer and lowered its voice. ‘What if her soul still walks Ghain’s slope? My hunters can find her and bring her to me. That is within my power.’

Vesna shook his head, unable to speak as the memory of Tila appeared in his mind, her beautiful face marked by a single spot of blood, the smile that lit up rooms twisted into a grimace of agony.

‘She is dead. She is gone,’ he said quietly.

‘Her body perhaps, but another can be found,’ the daemon insisted, edging ever closer. It was barely three yards from him now, its weapons held low. ‘She might be wearing some other beautiful face perhaps, but it would be her voice, her laughter still. There are many who pledge their souls to my kind: spurned lovers, vengeful mothers — many beautiful women whose bonds could be broken in exchange for their mortal form.’

‘It would not be her,’ Vesna insisted.

‘Her beauty exists in your mind,’ it continued. ‘You could share your bed with her double every night of your life — that too is within my power.’

Vesna didn’t speak. He could hear the music of her laughter in his mind but then it faded, to be replaced with the crash of glass on stone. His stomach tightened, desperate to retch up the black grief within him, but he smothered the feeling, all too aware that the emptiness was not so easily expelled.

‘No,’ he whispered, and struck without warning: two quick steps with a God’s speed, his sword rising even as he extended into a duellist’s lunge. The weapon pierced the Gaur-daemon’s chest, sliding neatly in with barely a sound. The daemon never even managed to raise its weapons in defense; it simply stared at the weapon transfixing it as a strange laugh bubbled up from its ruined chest.

‘Pledge myself to a daemon?’ Vesna whispered, his arm still outstretched. ‘What would she think of me then?’

He whipped the sword out and stepped smartly aside as daemonic ichor spurted from the wound. The daemon staggered, drunkenly trying to raise its weapons, but Vesna spun and struck off its head with one great blow. A distant shriek of rage echoed across the moor and he sensed the daemon vanish on the breeze. He didn’t wait, but turned to Moorview Castle as screams cut through the night.

Isak was on his feet before Mihn had entered the castle grounds. Legana recoiled in alarm as Eolis blazed with light right in front of her face, but her rasp of shock was drowned out by Isak’s own anguished howl.

That was enough for King Emin and the assembled company — before Mihn’s cries had echoed around the castle walls they were up and armed, watching for whatever had set Isak off. The air became hot and heavy around them, and a dry, dead taste coated the back of their throats as they looked frantically around.

Doranei saw Legana reel and frantically pulled at his boots. Veil saw him and nodded understanding, dropping his axe to draw a dagger and slice through his own laces. A smile crossed his face as his bare feet touched the grass and he reached for his axe again. Doranei watched in wonder as Veil receded into the gloom as the magic of his tattoos activated. Then he did the same, and felt the intoxicating sensation rush over his body as the darkness drew in to envelop him in shadows.

All around others were following suit, fading like candles extinguished by a sudden gust of wind until Isak, Hulf and Legana were the only ones illuminated by the firelight.

Mihn reached Isak’s side. He put a hand on the white-eye’s arm, and as he spoke, the single word, daemons, sent a chill through them all.

Isak, realising they would be there for him and Mihn, shrank inwards before catching himself and shaking his head violently. His abused lips twitched as he mentally steeled himself. He shrugged off his cloak and straightened his damaged body as best he could, holding Eolis with more purpose than he’d managed before the battle of Moorview. His pale skin shone bright under the light of Kasi, the lesser moon, highlighting the thick shaded lines of scarring that covered his bare chest, as though the man he’d been named after mocked what he had become.

Doranei looked over at Daken and saw the white-eye had thrown off his blankets to expose his own tattooed feet, but he was struggling to rise. ‘Veil, help Daken,’ he ordered, and drew his sword.

The clatter of hooves or something similar came from the lower gate, and as everyone turned to the sound, Doranei forced his way to the king’s side. For a moment everyone was still, listening intently for whatever was coming, then a man’s death-cry broke the air and the Brotherhood all rushed to defend their king while the Ghosts and Kingsguard manning the walls descended on the attackers.

Dark shapes poured through the gate and Isak felt another surge of fear drain his body of strength. Deliberately he bit down hard on his own lip and felt one jagged tooth tear through the flesh like a knife. The pain reached beyond his blind fear of Ghenna’s denizens and found something deeper inside him, something he could use. He leaped forward as the daemons headed straight for them, oblivious of the surrounding soldiers. A shout of fury burst its way out as Isak closed on the lead daemon with inhuman speed and hacked down at its head. The daemon raised a spine-clad arm to defend the blow, but Eolis chopped right through the limb, and the head behind.

Another daemon presented itself for Isak’s blade, and he moved left and struck again, barely registering a flail crashing down where he’d just been standing. Eolis parted the daemon’s outstretched arm with ease, carving arcs of moonlight as it danced almost of its own volition. Moving too fast for the daemons to match, Isak cleaved left and right, hewing a path through the enemy as shadows pounced on them from every side.

One tall, long-limbed daemon reached for him with sickle-claws and Isak ducked under, ignoring their fleeting scrape down his shoulders as he chopped through the daemon’s knee. It toppled with a howl and he slammed his shoulder into its gut to knock it backwards. Hot blood spurted across his shoulders as he battered the daemon to the ground and stamped on it, already seeking the next one to kill, until a sudden rush of wind from above caused him to check and turn.

He slashed upwards wildly as something swooped down. The creature screeched and reeled, but Isak grabbed at its bony legs and hauled the flying daemon from the sky. One leathery wing smashed against the side of Isak’s head, but he refused to let go and cut it again. This time Eolis tore through the wing and the daemon lurched downwards, coming close enough for Isak to hook an arm over it and drag it to the ground. Snarling furiously, he punched and stamped at the flailing nightmare beneath him, tearing the flesh from his knuckles on its scaly hide, until he remembered about the sword in his hand. He reversed Eolis, then stabbed down with it, impaling the daemon and pinning it to the ground as its screams filled the air and drowned out the battle going on around him.

A rush of movement on the left caught his eye. He ripped Eolis from the dying daemon just as something slammed into his side and gleaming teeth closed around his arm as it knocked him down. Though Isak stabbed blindly upwards as he was thrown to the ground, the teeth tightened on his arm and the pain intensified. The daemon’s hot stinking breath washed over him as it scrabbled clawed feet on his belly and released his arm, instead seeking his throat. Isak howled with pain and rage, unable to get his sword around in time as he watched the blood-coated fangs lunge forward — as a steel-shod staff lanced out of the night, driven right into the daemon’s open mouth and down its throat. The daemon reared as Mihn put his full weight behind the thrust and managed to drive the creature off Isak, quickly withdrawing the staff before it could bite down again. He stepped closer and swung the other end around, smashing it into one high, bulging eye that burst under the impact and sprayed orange fluid over them.

The daemon shook itself, growling like a hunting dog, but before it could pounce again Hulf threw himself fearlessly at it. The powerful dog grabbed the daemon’s hind leg and dragged it around, hauling the larger creature off-balance as Isak stood. Though blood was pouring from his arm and torso, Isak didn’t appear to notice his injuries as he chopped the daemon in half with one brutal blow and sought the next enemy.

When he found it, Isak hesitated for the first time, the raging fire in his veins dimming as he recognised that one, even in the weak half-light. The lizard-like daemon was scuttling low to the ground, circling around Mihn while trying to keep out of the reach of Eolis. Isak hurled the weapon through the air and it embedded itself deep into the daemon’s scaled tail. The white-eye screamed, as much with fear as hatred, as he ran forward and dived on top of the daemon. It twisted around to meet him, snapping at his face, but Isak caught it under the frill of spines around its neck and forced its head away.

The daemon tried to curl up instinctively, bringing up two pairs of legs to rake Isak and drive him away, but he ignored the assault and grabbed the nearest limb. With a great roar he summoned his unnatural strength and hauled back on its leg, the muscles of his huge shoulders bulging almost to bursting point as he pulled as hard as he could, until at last something gave.

The daemon shrieked in agony as Isak snarled and roared at his victory. Ichor came fountaining up over them both as he ripped the leg clean from its socket.

Lost in blood-lust, Isak tossed the limb aside and reached down, grabbing the next leg and tearing that off the screeching daemon too. It convulsed and went quiet, too weak to scream now, but he didn’t stop, snapping off the next with savage ease. The daemon went limp, dead by now, but Isak continued relentlessly, placed one foot on its scaled torso and tearing the fourth leg from the daemon.

This time Isak realised there was no more gushing ichor, and he registered it was dead. He retrieved Eolis and, soaked in his own blood and the many hues of daemon ichor, he sank to his knees atop the corpse of his erstwhile jailer. The humans were beginning to take their toll now, Isak’s furious assault having blunted the onrushing daemons long enough for the tattooed warriors to use their arcane advantage.

As Isak gasped for air, the last two daemons were cut down by a dozen blades and the castle grounds went quiet. He looked down at his arm, only now seeing the terrible damage the daemon’s teeth had done to it. The pain was excruciating, but after Ghenna it felt like nothing to him.

Isak let Eolis fall from his fingers and banished the sensation to the back of his mind. His belly and chest were burning and Isak looked down to see a dozen or more cuts overlaying the scars there. With one finger he traced an unsteady path over them, smearing the blood that ran from his skin. The daemon-script that had been cut into his flesh was obscured in several parts now, overlaid by new and random abuse from daemon-claws. He smiled despite the pain, and let Mihn lift his injured arm with the care of a fussing mother. Somewhere a shout went up for healers, and then was lost in the clamour of voices that became mere jagged sounds to accompany his pain.

Mihn was speaking to him, but Isak couldn’t make out the words. The small man was reaching for something to wrap around the injury, but Isak pushed him away gently and looked inside himself, trying to recall the time when the magic had rushed through his body as easily as breathing.

Reluctantly the energies came to his call and he felt a sense of calm descend as a pale light began to play over his skin. Mihn stepped back in surprise, but Isak continued to smile, even as the brightness and pain intensified. Holding his arm up to inspect it, Isak saw Doranei and King Emin, just past Mihn, both standing with mouths open as the light traced every open wound on his body, wrapping his arm in a garland of light.

The stink of daemons was suddenly overlaid by burning flesh and pain enveloped his entire body, searing through everything, and at last he cried out, briefly, before succumbing. Isak felt the Land lurch underneath him and fall away, and in its place came darkness. There, blessedly, the pain was only a memory lost among many.