The Grave thief

CHAPTER 34

He felt the darkness all around him, crawling over his skin, choking every breath he took. The air tasted of hot ash and tears. Every droplet of stinking, greasy sweat seemed to be scalding hot on his skin, but he could not move to wipe them away. His strength had been sapped by the heat radiating out from the rock and the searing chains that bound him. The pitted, ancient iron cut grooves in his flesh, tracing a pattern of bondage across his arms, neck and waist.

In the distance there was sound. He tried to concentrate on the noise to block out the pain, but it was not enough. Sometimes he could hear faint screams, sometimes laughter. Often there was only the slither of scales and skin over stone, or a distant booming that he felt through the rock more than heard. Whatever the sound, it was always dull and indistinct, even when the claws clicked close enough to touch his body. Hot huffs of foetid breath came accompanied by guttural snorts. Their whispers produced images in his mind, horrors he had no name for, and the words themselves were unintelligible.

It was too dark to see, but on occasion flashes of vermilion-tinted light burst in his eyes. His prison was a forgotten fissure. His blood was a feast for his monstrous attendants who crawled up walls and along the roof; sometimes they fought desperate battles, tearing shreds from their enemies; greedily gulping down chunks of hard-won flesh before the battle was even over, or they got cast into the jagged pits and yawning chasms below.

His head sagged and he stared down into the emptiness beneath his feet, mindless of the cruelties inflicted upon him. His tongue was a lead weight that filled his mouth; he could no more gag than scream. For a moment he thought perhaps he had succeeded in howling, until the stench of putrefaction and heavy rasp of limbs told him there had been another victory on the walls around him. In the prison of his mind, his screams were deafening.

Isak wrenched himself awake with such force he fell from his camp-bed. He moaned and dry-retched at the memory of the dream, shudders rattling down his spine. After a few moments he forced his head up and saw the grey light of dawn creeping through the entrance of his tent. He'd managed no more than two hours of sleep and his mouth felt like it was filled with sulphurous ash.

'No good reason it's today,' he said hoarsely, and reached for the wineskin hanging from the ridgepole. 'Could be nothing but some damn shadow messing with my mind, or the Reapers giving Aryn Bwr a reminder of what's waiting for him.'

The wine was sour and weak, but it took away the foul taste from his mouth. His tent was simple, barely long enough to fit the whole of his oversized body, and far from the luxury some dukes went to war in. Isak was beginning to regret his decision to set an example. The fact that Chalat had burned or redistributed the finery some clerics had brought with them was small consolation on a cold, grey morning.

The bowl of water beside his bed was far from clean, but it was good enough. Isak plunged his hands in and started scrubbing roughly at his face, desperate to get rid of the hot, greasy feel of his dream that lingered still.

Afterwards, feeling a little refreshed, he struggled into his armour. The cold in his bones began to ease once Siulents touched his skin, and he felt almost human again by the time he buckled Eolis around his waist and stepped out into the dawn light.

Two men were waiting for him under a sky of heavy black clouds: the implacable white-eye and the flamboyant hero. Count Vesna was resplendent in his legendary black-and-gold plate, while General Lahk wore the austere black-and-white livery of Lord Bahl over the lighter half-armour of the Ghosts. The sight of Lahk reminded Isak that one cleric had even gone so far as to demand command of the Ghosts be given over to the cult of Death, since they wore the livery of a dead man.

'Where the buggery is Torl?' Isak snapped.

'He presents his apologies,' General Lahk replied in his usualflat voice, sounding almost disinterested, 'Suzerain Torl says he cannot

leave Chalat's army; that he must finish what he started.'

'He does remember he started it because I ordered him to?'

'Isak, he's a proud man; a man of honour,' Vesna said.

The hero of the Farlan Army somehow contrived to look fresh and awake, despite the fact dawn had not fully broken yet. His golden earrings of rank gleamed in his left ear and his shining hair was neatly tied back; he looked ready to attend a parade in his honour. The scattering of grey hairs among the lack contrived only to add a certain sage dignity to his ever-handsome features. Isak glowered at him.

'He will not leave them now, not after he has force-marched them here.'

'He'll bloody die!' Isak protested as loudly as he dared; he did not want to attract the attention of the entire legion of Ghosts surrounding them.

'I'm sure he understands that,' Vesna hissed fiercely, 'but it is his choice. Torl is not a man who walks away. He's sent Tiniq back, and all those seconded to him from your personal guard, but that's as far as he's going.'

Isak scowled as a woman in the quartermaster's livery ran up to him with a steaming clay pot and a large hunk of bread. He accepted both with a grunt, and when the woman looked worried, fearing she'd offended him, he managed a small smile of thanks.

'What do the scryers say?' he asked through a mouthful of bread.

'The enemy have held their position. There were a few probes in the night, but nothing serious, just scouts trying to draw us after them.'

'And the reinforcements?'

'Theirs or ours?' Lahk asked.

Isak shook his head in irritation. 'Theirs, of course — ours are so far behind we might as well have not even bothered calling them up. I doubt they'll be here in time to bury the dead!'

'Fifteen legions, no more than two days away. We could sacrifice our light cavalry to at least slow them down, but only if we could get Chalat to hold off his assault long enough for us to outflank them.'

'So he didn't bother bringing his full army to conquer the Circle City?'

'You are right to be suspicious, my Lord, but where the remaining troops are I cannot say. The scryers cannot find them anywhere.'

'Let's count what blessings we do have,' Vesna said firmly. 'Chalat is determined to march straight into Styrax's men, making himself a damn big target for whatever Styrax intends. That saves our troops from the worse of their surprises, and gives us a chance to watch out for the rest of the Menin, whether they're behind the walls of Byora or elsewhere.'

Isak nodded. 'And also giving us the chance to not engage at all unless we really have to. The closer we can get to Byora the better. With luck the Ghosts can break through the gates and take the Ruby Tower. Either way, we don't want to give Azaer any space to intervene if we can help it.'

'I doubt the opportunity will arise, my Lord,' Lahk said. 'Everything I hear about Kastan Styrax makes me certain there will be a surprise waiting.'

'I know, but it's still not why we're here. There's a fair chance he'll take Chalat out after the initial charge — if he does, those mercenaries will fall back. That's our opportunity to treat with Styrax — we can tell the clerics it's a ruse; if they do object, they'll be too disorganised to do anything about it in time.'

Lahk bowed, his face expressionless. 'As you wish, my Lord.'

'How near ready are we?'

'Two legions mounted and formed up, plus the First Guardsmen to the east,' Vesna said, pointing to Isak's left, 'and the Fordan and Tehran divisions behind you.'

As he spoke, an aide ran up with a scout in tow. The soldier was dressed more like a forester: his poorly fitting tunic had been reinforced with steel strips and he carried a light helmet. A long dagger was tucked into in his belt; if he had a bow, clearly he'd left it with his horse.

'Report,' Lahk commanded as the pair saluted Isak.

'General,' the aide began breathlessly, 'Lord Chalat has given the order to advance.' Isak guessed the youth to be a couple of years younger than he was himself, probably a noble son assigned to Lahk's command staff since it was deemed a relatively safe post.

'Disposition?' he asked.

'Wide advance, sir,' the scout replied confidently. His accent marked him as a man of the mountains, despite the absence of any identifying badge. He was twice the age of Lahk's aide, and obviously experienced, if the scar on his face was anything to go by. 'Divisions o' Knights o' the Temples and penitents, with Chalat and the Cardinal Paladins in the centre, Dark Monks on the left flank and the rest o' the penitents on the right — penitents're in tight division blocks, though Suzerain Torl don't look like he 'eard the order quite right and chose to stay loose.'

'Damn Chetse don't know anything about cavalry,' Vesna muttered. 'It's a wonder he's got them moving at all.'

The scout wisely chose not to comment, but continued, 'The Siul legions are clearing ahead; enemy's got archers and light cavalry stationed at each bridge. They'll have engaged by now.'

'What state are the rivers in?'

'Look high to me, sir — the ground's soft, so I'd say there's been a fair amount of rain. Can still be crossed, but only slowly. I'd not want to be the one trying to outflank the enemy.'

Lahk turned to Isak. 'My Lord, we should have the Tirah cavalry standing ready as rearguard — if the enemy does have reserves hidden behind Byora's walls, we need to move now to ensure they're not exposed.'

Isak sighed and looked up at the sky. It's promising rain, and if it does, it'll be even harder going. The more bogged-down the clerics get, the more likely it is we'll engage and I'll end up face to face with Lord Styrax.

'Give the order,' he said to the general. 'It's going to be a long, hard day.'

Dawn turned into morning with a sullen reluctance. Isak had a clear view of the battlefield from atop a small rise. In the east was the massive bulk of Blackfang, and in front was Byora. He had a fine view of the two levels which rose up from behind the main wall of the city. The quarter's unnaturally tall towers were dwarfed by the great black cliffs behind.

He couldn't see Akell; it was hidden by a sloping spur of rock that jutted out from the main bulk of Blackfang. Pretty obvious the Circle City isn't really one continuous city, he thought to himself. Outside the Byora city wall was a wide skirt of buildings that looked like shanties, getting progressively larger and nicer the further they were from the wall. Larger detached houses and farms dotted the land all the way to Ismess.

To the west were the mist-covered fens that spoiled the view from the Duchess of Byora's Ruby Tower. They looked closer to the city than Isak remembered. Even in his childhood when he was running wild, Isak had kept away from the fens: they were treacherous at the best of times. The wagon-brat might not have been welcome on the streets of Burn or Wheel, but all the same he'd never wandered far from the city.

The waterlands were gateways to Death's realm, like ponds and lakes: still waters attracted all sorts of malign spirits and creatures, quite apart from whatever might come through those gateways. The fens were studded with copses of bent and twisted marsh-alder and silvery ghost willows, and they looked forbidding even in high summer. Isak had heard more stories of the Coldhand Folk, will o' the wisps, Finntrail and the like in Byora than anywhere else outside of Tirah. The hunting could be good in the fens, and the willows from which the medicinal bark was harvested were plentiful, but no one disputed the very real dangers either entailed.

'Shall I send the engineers now, my Lord?' said a voice from Isak's knee, making him jump a little. He looked down to see Quartermaster-General Kervar standing beside Isak's horse, looking out over the battlefield.

'The bridges? Aye, it's time.'

After he'd carried out Isak's order, Kervar pulled his own mount away from Toramin, Isak's massive charger. Bored of standing still, Toramin had decided to investigate the horse next to him, and that was making Kervar's beast decidedly nervous.

Isak gave the reins a tug to quieten the fiery stallion and looked up. He didn't need to see the Poacher's Moon, hidden by heavy clouds, to know it was approaching mid-morning. There was a stiff southwesterly breeze running across the plain, which would be enough to blunt the effect of the enemy's strafing attacks.

Isak had studied the record books in Tirah Palace during the depths of winter, and he had discovered that the Farlan heavy cavalry was always the last weapon to be used in any battle. Most Farlan victories were because the horse-archers were not only excellent marksmen — although that was part of it — but they were so much more manoeuvrable than their enemies. The classic Farlan tactic was to send the heavy cavalry in after the enemy had been weakened by the others which, Isak suspected, allowed them to sleep late and enjoy a leisurely breakfast while the commoners did most of the work.

'Chalat is taking his time, I'm glad to see,' Vesna said, breaking the contemplative silence. They had an almost unrestricted view of the battlefield, all the way to the ancient boundary wall three miles away. The Menin were dug in behind that wall.

'At least he's not lost all his senses,' agreed Lahk. 'He's giving the skirmishers a chance to make a mistake before he fords that second river.'

Isak managed a weak smile. The palace records had left one clear impression in his mind as he read them: most battles were lost because of one of three factors: poor communication, bad luck or stupidity.

Chalat's men were roughly halfway between Isak, at the rear of his own men, and the Menin. It had taken them several hours to cross a mile of ground and the first river. The bridges across the second river had been destroyed by the retreating Menin, who now loitered just out of range, ready to take out anyone who got within bowshot. The problem was simple: how to get across the river without losing hundreds of men.

'I'm bored,' Isak announced. He pointed to the horsemen arrayed ahead of him. 'Sound the advance,' he ordered, gesturing towards Byora. The main gate lay between the rivers.

On the left flank were three divisions of the Palace Guard's heavy cavalry, with the College of Magic regiment nestled between them. The colourful centre consisted of various suzerains and their hurscals, a number of other noblemen, all in heavy armour, and two full legions of light cavalry. Next to them were two thousand more light cavalry in loose formation. The reserve troops, the last division of Ghosts and the remaining two cavalry legions, were on the far right.

General Lahk inclined his head. 'Bugler, sound slow advance,' he called, and behind him a set of three long notes sounded. The call was quickly taken up and Isak's army, looking like a great bloated beast heaving itself forward, began to advance.

Isak caught Count Vesna giving him a pointed look and he frowned for a moment, wondering what he'd forgotten. Then he got it and in a loud voice said, 'Gentlemen, your helms.' As he settled Siulents over his own head Isak caught a glimpse of Vesna touching his fingers to his left wrist. Even our heroes need a lucky charm, he thought with a sigh. All I've got is a contingency plan that scares the shit out of me.

In the distance he could just make out the black dot of Lord Styrax's enormous army standard. As though in response to his darkening mood he felt a tug at his mind from the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass. The Reapers were stirring: they smelled death on the air. Up above him, clouds gathered, as though summoned by his call.

'Good to have you back, sir.'

Amber looked up, his eyes widening. 'Gods! What have I told you about taking your helm off, Deebek?'

The ageing sergeant grinned, showing an irregular set of broken teeth. 'I weren't t'do it, sir. Said it pissed you off when I did that.'

'Exactly,' Amber agreed, thumping the man heavily on his armoured shoulder. Standing around Sergeant Deebek was his squad, all young men he didn't know, and all wearing expressions of relieved anxiety.

'I know we give you recruits to break them into the harsh realities of a soldier's life, but for pity's sake don't make them look at your face all the time as well!' he laughed.

There was no getting around the fact that Deebek was an ugly man — he'd not been a handsome child, what with arms looking too short for his stocky torso, but getting kicked in the face by a mule at the age of five hadn't helped. Then a warhammer crumpled the front of his helm and completed the job, leaving the tip of his nose sliced off by the torn metal. His cheek had shattered under the impact and his teeth and jaw were so ruined that it was a mercy Deebek had been knocked unconscious by the blow. There'd been no neat way of removing the embedded metal from his face, so it had been done quick and nasty, and that had woken him up quick enough.

'You really are a lucky bastard,' Amber said, staring at the ruin of Deebek's face. Every time he returned from a mission and saw Deebek again, he was reminded of how close the man had come to an excruciatingly painful death — instead of the excruciatingly painful recovery that had left him looking like this. Amber was gripped with renewed fascination and revulsion, as usual.

'Don't I know it, sir,' Deebek said, 'and that's why I makes sure all m'boys gets themselves decent headgear.'

Looking around him Amber realised it was true. Every one of the recruits had the top'of-the-range one-piece Y-faced helms. Normally any decent bit of armour got nicked off the recruits soon enough, but clearly Deebek had put a stop to that, at least where his boys were concerned. No one could fault him for that; if he'd been wearing anything less that day twenty years ago, Deebek would have been stone dead.

'How's it looking over there?' Amber looked out past the wall they were dug in behind. He could see the advancing Farlan well enough, but Deebek was one of the most experienced sergeants in Amber's division, and always worth sounding out.

Deebek's face went serious all of a sudden. 'Goin' to be nasty, Major, that's for sure. Won't be long now. They're workin' their way over, and our horseboys ain't done much yet.'

On the other side of the wall, six feet away from the base, they'd dug a foot-deep trench. They'd not had the time to prepare serious earthworks beyond a few pits a hundred and fifty paces from the wall, but the trench had been easy work, and at least it would give the Farlan horsemen pause for thought when they tried to leap the wall.

Amber looked at the crossbowmen bolstering the heavy infantry stationed along the wall. There were more companies waiting behind. Their bows might not be as good — or as plentiful — as the Farlan cavalry, but they'd blunt any charge.

The minotaurs, Bloodsworn knights and a legion of light cavalry were covering the open ground on the right: they were all fast enough and dangerous enough to dissuade anyone from attempting to outflank them. On the left flank another legion of light cavalry were deployed behind a small wood, in which were two regiments of infantry and a spider-web of cables strung between the trees, guaranteed to inconvenience anyone riding through. It was the weaker flank, but only time would tell whether the Farlan would take the bait.

'Going to get close and nasty,' Amber pronounced, 'just how we like it.'

On the field ahead of them, two regiments of skirmishing cavalry moved into action, strafing the central part of the Farlan army.

The colourful robes indicated priests, and there was a regiment of knights Amber couldn't identify. They wouldn't hold for long; the numbers bearing down on them were too great. In response to their arrows a lance of flame spat out from the advancing Farlan and engulfed the skirmishers nearest them.

'Karkarn be with us,' Amber breathed, realising the fire was pinpointing Lord Chalat's position. The air shimmered above the white-eye and shapes began to appear in the sky. The archers immediately started to fall back, and he knew the cavalry would follow soon.

'Piss and daemons, what are they?' Deebek said, voicing everyone's thought.

Amber peered at the sky, then realised what he was seeing. 'Gods,' he muttered out loud, 'they're actually bloody Gods! Those mad bastard priests have summoned their Aspect-Guides!'

As though in confirmation, a figure of flame rose up from just ahead of the Farlan ranks, taller and broader than any mere human, even a white-eye. A deep roar echoed over the fields, causing one of Deebek's recruits to jump.

'Don't let that worry you, boys,' Amber yelled cheerfully. 'Stick those priests full of arrows and the Aspects'll be gone like piss in a river.' He just hoped he was right about that.

He turned to leave for his own assigned command, fifty yards further on, where a beastmaster was standing holding Lord Styrax's hissing wyvern on a long rein. The blue-green beast was saddled and ready for battle. It sat up on its haunches and peered towards the enemy, half-unfurling its pale blue wings until the beastmaster gave the reins another hard jerk and pulled the head down to his shoulder.

'Cover up that ugly mug, Sergeant, they're coming,' he called over his shoulder. Deebek's laughter followed Amber as he pulled his scimitars from their sheaths and knocked the pommel of one against his own helm to ensure it was snug.

'Wouldn't want to frighten the bastards, eh, Major?' the sergeant called, and he raised his sword above his head in acknowledgement.

As the sound of hooves came closer he picked up the pace to reach his position, making sure he slapped his gloved hand on the helm of every man he passed. Captain Hain gave him a quick salute and looked nervously back at the snarling monster.

'Major,' called a voice, and Amber spotted his commander, Colonel Uresh, riding towards him, with Army Messenger Karapin and a green-clad mage following close behind. 'All done?' The old soldier looked invigorated by the coming fight, his lined face showing an energy at odds with his age — he and Amber's father were born in the same year. He might not be in the thick of battle himself, but still he wore heavy infantryman's armour.

'Aye, sir,' Amber replied, saluting in turn. 'Every officer's got his orders, every man knows his place.' He pointed towards the Farlan centre. 'Looks like Lord Chalat's leading the charge; we'll need an extra regiment or two to stop him breaking the line.'

The colonel stood up in his stirrups to get a better view of the battlefield. 'I'll give the order. Anything more, I'll be with the Reavers, waiting to signal our reserves. Good luck, Major,'

As soon as Amber returned the salute Uresh spurred his horse and was off again, leaving the two younger men behind pushing hard to keep up. The major took a quick look at the mist-covered fens, where Lord Styrax had stationed the rest of the Third Army — together with a pair of Adepts of the Hidden Tower, and six scryers who were most likely fainting with exhaustion as they continued to keep the presence of so many men hidden from the Farlan scryers. They had to be praying the Farlan hadn't started to wonder about the mist, which hadn't shifted at all. Luckily, the grim weather made it look much more natural. 'Think our luck's going to hold, Hain?' he asked quietly.

The young captain grinned he raised his long axe, the head painted with Lord Styrax's fanged skull emblem.

'Luck? You know we don't need that! We'll be building another monument to our lord's glory before the day is out.'

Out of habit, Amber's finger went to the ceramic plaque fixed to his breastplate. Every soldier in the army had one, no matter what regiment he belonged to. 'Aye, there'll be more skulls than Death himself knows what to do with,' he said with a smile, while his mind conjured up the image of books on magical theory and theology piled on a desk in the Fear en House. For the first time he wondered whether there might be more to the monuments they had built in Kastan Styrax's honour.

Karkarn's horn, aren't I glad to be Menin? he thought with heartfelt sincerity. He turned to the beastmaster, who was still struggling to keep the wyvern under control. 'Time for you to go; tell Lord Styrax he's got a good half-hour before we'll need him.'

The man saluted and yanked the reins hard, pulling the wyvern down far enough for it to let him scramble up into the saddle strapped to it. After a few eager hops the creature unfurled its wings and took off. Amber watched as the beastmaster directed an obscene gesture towards the advancing Farlan and then went to business.

'Archers ready!'

'Second group; attack!' Suzerain Torl yelled to his bugler and wren-ched his horse around to head away from the enemy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Count Macove lead out the second wave of Brethren knights, but he couldn't follow their progress until he'd gone another hundred yards and turned around, and by then the men had switched from bows to engage with lances. With the Brethren and Bloodsworn both in dark uniforms it was hard to tell how they were faring at that distance, but he could hear the brutal crash of weapons.

'Bugler, tell the reserves to advance,' he ordered.

The man sounded a flurry of notes, which were repeated back a few moments later. The division was arranged in three lines, bows at the ready, no more than a hundred yards from the fighting. Torl looked for the short figure of Suzerain Saroc, but he couldn't pick out his friend amongst the crowd. The only man not in a Brethren uniform was Chaplain Wain, who was standing up in his stirrups and waving his moon-glaive like a berserker.

Under Torl's commands his own division reordered itself and turned to face the enemy again, advancing to the right wing of the reserves with a clear gap between. They had the advantage of speed over the Bloodsworn and the minotaurs; as soon as they clashed, there'd be no avenue of escape and the Farlan men would likely be crushed.

On Torl's extreme left, a division of Farlan light cavalry were doing their best to distract the minotaurs and break up the Menin line, but their arrows didn't seem to be having much effect. The beasts had been making a terrible racket even before they took any casualties, and as Torl watched, they pulled further left, having seen their Menin counterparts creeping around behind the minotaurs, trying to out-flank them. The Menin light cavalry were holding back, cautious of a head-on charge they wouldn't win. Although they'd really only drifted from one side of their lines to the other, looking for an opening, Torl knew he couldn't afford to let them get around.

'Call Macove back,' he called, judging the benefits of his forward momentum to have finished now. As the bugler sounded the order, some of the soldiers began to peel away even before the order was repeated. 'Come on,' he said, gripping his reins, 'you're hating this, so just fucking charge us!'

'Bastards aren't listening, sir,' Brother-Captain Sheln said from beside him. He wore an open helm which had only a leaf-shaped nose-guard to protect his face. For the first time that Torl could remember there was colour in Sheln's cheek — obviously leaving his lance-head in a knight's throat had a better effect on some than others.

'They won't,' Torl predicted. 'Looks like everything we've heard about the Bloodsworn is true. Bugler, tell the reserves to advance and fire on the minotaurs — let's see how much punishment they can take.'

'Arrows!' called a man, pointing ahead as dark streaks began to slam into Macove's retreating division, courtesy of a group of crossbowmen who had appeared on the centre ground. There weren't that many men, but the crossbows were powerful weapons and it wouldn't take many volleys to leave the division disordered and vulnerable.

'Division advance at the canter,' Torl roared, 'bows ready! Close the range and fire as you go!'

As he urged his horse forward, he saw the majority of the centre line had closed with the Menin line — a fine idea if one were leading the Ten Thousand, no doubt, but in this case it was a waste, using cavalry to fight on infantrymen's ground.

We're not going to break them on this flank. The minotaurs are their only weak point here and we can't bring a sustained attack to bear. If you do have a plan, Chalat, now's the time.

Amber swivelled and chopped down through the shaft, swinging up his shield as the Farlan passed him and smashing it into the man's side, almost knocking him from the saddle. Hain jumped forward and hacked into the man's back with his axe, the man screamed as his horse carried him on past, and the two Menin were on to the next enemy soldier.

The stretch of wall they'd been defending had collapsed under the weight of a falling horse and the Farlan were piling towards the gap. Although they couldn't charge, they still had the advantage of height.

Amber chanced a step forward again and gasped as a spear missed his face by scant inches. The man who'd thrown it was already reaching for his mace when a crossbow bolt knocked him from the saddle, but a moment later he was replaced by another. They wore filthy robes over their mismatched armour and sported symbols of the Gods. Amber hadn't heard the Farlan cults had been recruiting, but that's what it looked like to him. Penitents of Karkarn were a common enough sight back home and he recognised the War God's black dragon's head symbol sewn over the man's heart.

The penitent was unable to get his horse past the wall, so he leaned over in his saddle and struck down at the shield of a private standing next to Amber. The blow sent the man to his knees, but it gave Amber the opening he needed. More spears were thrown; the Farlan charge had been halted for the moment, held by the Menin line of infantry. Amber bellowed words of encouragement which were taken up by the sergeants along the line.

The Farlan were unable to use the weight of their horses in a charge, so they were getting picked off one by one. It wasn't long before the recall was sounded.

'Hold the line!' Amber yelled at the top of his voice, but he needn't have worried. The Cheme troops were content to watch the Farlan retreat; only a few crossbow bolts and the odd boo followed the retreating Farlan. Then Amber saw a flowing white figure twice the height of a man flicker suddenly and vanish: someone had taken out a priest. The Aspect's disappearance was met with a renewed cheer. Judging by the bodies strewn on the ground and the horses milling around, the priests and their knights had put up quite a fight.

'They'll be hack,' Captain Hain commented, letting the axe handle slide through his hand until the butt hit the ground and he could rest his arm on the weapon, 'but that could have gone worse!'

Amber nodded. 'Took me by surprise, though. I was expecting something more than a straight charge.'

'Maybe what we heard about Farlan cavalry is only rumour,' Hain laughed. 'Maybe they made it up themselves to make folk run away.'

Amber took a quick count of their losses; it didn't take him long to confirm that the Farlan had been badly mauled. 'Something's wrong sure enough,' he said. 'They're doing themselves no favours, fighting like this.'

'We didn't get the worst of it,' Hain said, pointing east.

'Aye, hope there's something left of Larim's coterie over there,' Amber said. 'Looked like they were having to deal with a whole lot of flames.'

Lord Chalat might have been deposed and turned mad with fanaticism, but his power was undiminished. The Chosen of Tsatach was well known for walking into battle wreathed in flame and directing great torrents of fire towards the enemy. They couldn't match him for raw power, so three members of Larim's new coterie had been ordered to do nothing but deflect his attacks throughout the battle, blunting his efforts to break the line.

Amber breathed deeply. The air felt cold in his lungs, as though evening was drawing in, but he knew it was no later than midday. Assuming there were no breaks in the line, they'd be defending for another hour, he guessed. The Menin didn't have enough cavalry to counter-charge, and they needed to wait for the right moment before committing their reserves.

The minotaurs and Bloodsworn had loaded the right flank specifically to encourage the Farlan to attack the left. The main bulk of reserves were infantry, so they needed the Farlan close. If Lord Chalat broke through the centre, they would have to deploy the reserves and hope their cavalry would be enough to screen five legions of infantry from the waiting Farlan behind.

'Come on, you bastards,' he whispered, 'take the bait.'

'They're redeploying, my Lord,' General Lahk said, standing up in his stirrups. 'Going to turn to the right flank.'

Isak looked back at the ongoing battle. His stomach was a tight ball of fear and nerves, and he knew he was clinging to the false hope that the departure of the wyvern meant Lord Styrax was absent. No plan, however brilliant, survived contact with the enemy, after all. The whole reason Isak had raced to the Circle City was to catch his enemies unaware — to act contrary to expectation.

'How can you tell?' Isak asked after a few moments. 'You can't hear the orders from here.'

'Look over there, to the extreme right,' Vesna advised. He pointed past the copse of ash trees that was the only cover bigger than a house anywhere on the whole Menin line. 'The cavalry units there; they're not penitents, they're the Siul legions.'

'And they're engaging directly,' Isak said, thinking aloud, 'not trying to draw out pursuit.'

'They would only do that if ordered,' Lahk said, 'which means Chalat wants to suck in some of the infantry units on that flank before he charges.'

Isak couldn't help looking back at Byora; the Ruby Tower was easy to pick out at this distance. He had seen enough battles now to know that nothing would happen immediately — no matter how well trained the men, it takes time to react when the smallest unit involved is a division of five hundred.

'Are you there, shadow?' he whispered to himself, 'staring out of Ilumene's eyes — or that little boy, maybe? Are you afraid yet? You thought you were safe here, and now you realise it's luck, not artifice, that will keep you alive.'

'Starting to move, my Lord,' Lahk commented. 'If the enemy has a trick up his sleeve, he'll use it now.'

Isak turned back. 'Torl's going to be damn lonely on that left flank, isn't he? He's got to hold, or they'll get rolled up by the minotaurs and Bloodsworn.'

'Don't worry about Torl, my Lord,' Vesna said. 'They won't get around him, and they'll have a hard time catching him. Remember, he usually rides with the light cavalry. He knows their tactics better than any Farlan alive.'

Isak suddenly went very still as a chill ran down his spine. For a moment his head swam, as if the Land had unexpectedly shifted around him, and nebulous grey swirls passed across his vision as the air went cold in his lungs. For a moment he thought it was Azaer's presence reaching out to him, hut then he heard a familiar laboured breathing at the back of his mind. It was no shadow; it was the Soldier, Death's hand on the battlefield.

Now he could feel them at his sides, closer even than Vesna and Lahk. The Headsman was on his left, waiting with terrible patience; the Soldier on his right was so close the fingers of his sword-hand ached for Eolis. In the shadows of his peripheral vision the Great Wolf took slow, stalking steps, while the Burning Man stared hungrily towards Lord Chalat.

'Leave them, you cannot help them,' came a whisper in his mind, a voice he had barely heard in months. Aryn Bwr, the last king of the Elves had stayed hidden in the deepest recesses of Isak's soul, hemmed in by the Aspects of Death tied to Isak's shadow who so dearly wanted to claim him.

'The moments slip by, one by one,' replied the Headsman. Isak could feel the finality of each word like the vibrations of a tolling bell. 'Your time is coming. Your last refuge will soon be no more.'

'Turn to Byora,' urged Aryn Bwr, desperation creeping into his voice. 'Forget the priests who would murder you in a heartbeat. You came for the shadow's disciples and now they are within your grasp.'

'The last grains are falling,' the Headsman intoned, 'and we come for you, heretic'

Isak shook his head, trying to drive away the nagging voices. 'Gods damn you all,' he growled, one hand on Toramin's neck, aching to feel living flesh instead of dead souls. He blinked and the images of the Reapers faded away from his perception as they stepped back, content to wait once more.

'My Lord?' Vesna asked, trying not to sound concerned.

Isak looked at him. His friend again had his fingers pressed to his wrist, almost as though taking his own pulse — as though reminding himself he was still alive.

'I'm fine, it's just the voices in my head.' He tried to sound amused, but it failed and he fell silent again. He rested his hand on the emerald pommel of Eolis for comfort.

'My Lord, the fens!' Lahk roared and as they turned, the mist over the fens was suddenly swept up and away and Isak felt an icy hand close around his heart. The fens were as they had been in his memory. There on the ground, about half a mile from the copse of tall ash trees, were dark blocks of soldiers rather than grass-choked patches of water. They were already marching, three legions of infantry advancing in a line as cavalrymen made their way around them to encircle the attacking Farlan.

'My Lord,' General Lahk continued, 'we have no choice now! They're outnumbered; if we sit and watch they'll be massacred and we'll be next.'

'The last grains are falling,' came the mocking singsong whisper at the back of his mind.

Isak felt his body go rigid, every muscle tensing as the enormity of the decision crashed down on top of him. The clatter of voices and weapons faded to nothing and he was left in silence, staring out across the untended fields. All he was aware of were the heaving clouds above and the cold taste of mud on the breeze.

The scent of the grave filled his mind. His fists clenched so tightly that his hands shook like an old man's, but still Isak did nothing but stare over the drab fields where he would die.

Oh Gods, is it really true? 1 can't… The thought died unfinished. It wasn't that he couldn't believe it; the problem was that he could. What he couldn't do was disbelieve, though he had tried for months, hoping and praying, ignoring his instincts in favour of the preferable alternatives: possibilities that were all perfectly plausible, even likely…

It changed nothing, for the fact remained that he knew it was coming. The Reapers in his shadow could sense it; they were licking their lips in anticipation of the spirit that would be released when Isak died.

He could not escape it. He could not run, or pretend or delay. The sands of time had run out; he could not abandon his fighting men and turn home again, for they would be slaughtered and that would give the enemy the reason to march north, confident that Isak would do nothing but cower at home.

The Farlan would be broken by a leader who betrayed the men he marched with. He had to give the order, and trust in a quiet little man to save him. He had to ignore the terror and pain and put his entire trust in a man whose whole life was centred on failure.

'Isak!' Vesna bellowed, grabbing his arm in a desperate attempt to get a reaction.

Isak flinched, staring wild-eyed at his friend for a moment before obeying the burn in his lungs and gasping for breath like a man emerging from deep water,

'Go,' he said, his parched throat making the word an unintelligible mess. Isak coughed and swallowed his fear. 'Sound the attack,' he croaked.

I'm frightened.