The ragged man

CHAPTER 29

'Well, engineer, will it work?'

The engineer froze in his tracks, like a rabbit that had seen the eagle's shadow. Lips pressed firmly together, he turned to Lord Styrax, but it didn't do any good. As soon as he looked directly at the black-armoured warrior his nerve failed and he began to hiccough.

The wyvern behind him was constantly trying to eat any horse that came near, and, according to the sergeant escorting him, it had only recently learned not to try and eat General Gaur. Its savagery was blunted, rather than tamed, and he was scared of it, yet the statue-still Lord of the Menin somehow unnerved him more.

'Aye, I believe so, my Lord,' he replied cautiously, remembering to bow only after he'd spoken. 'It's a battering ram; there's not much to go wrong.' The engineer wasn't a real soldier, and the campaign had taken its toll. He felt exhausted, and as out of place as he looked, this fat little man of fifty summers, but every battle won took him a step closer to home, so even the task of fitting wheels to a huge tree-trunk had been carried out with exacting care.

Styrax turned and the man wilted under his scrutiny. 'I know that, engineer,' he said, no trace of emotion in his voice. 'You are not a man of nostalgia, it appears.'

For a moment the Menin lord's gaze drifted away into the distance. There were dark circles around his eyes, indications that Kastan Styrax was still just a man, and grieved as any would, but the white irises were colder than ever.

'Ah – ' He tried to reply, but found his mind empty of words. Last time Styrax had spoken those words to him, Lord Kohrad had been at his side, ready to prove himself to his father. The very idea of bantering with a grieving white-eye made his limbs tremble.

As the tribe's foremost expert in artillery and siege weapons, he knew only too well what terrifying forces could be produced by wood, sinew and metal, to be unleashed as required. Such weapons had a resonance, a restrained stillness, like that he felt now in Lord Styrax's presence. Power hummed through the man and strained at the clamps keeping it in check. The engineer fought down the urge to run, his deepest instincts screaming to be away before such catastrophic force was unleashed.

When Styrax turned away sharply he nearly sagged with relief. His shoulders jerked as he tried to hold back another hiccough, and he flinched as the ugly old sergeant appeared beside him.

Sergeant Deebek clapped him on the shoulder and grinned toothily, about to lead him away, when Lord Styrax spoke again. 'Engineer, estimate the range of their fire-throwers.' He pointed to the nearest of Aroth's two high bastions.

Though no rival to Tor Salan's defences, the fire-throwers of Aroth were still formidable, if their intelligence was to be believed. From what they knew, when it was fired, it released a curious horizontal main beam that whipped around the entire tower, then disengaged from the powering mechanism and pivoted back to its starting point, leaving the hanging bowl ready to be refilled while the mechanism was swiftly reset.

'I – That is difficult, my Lord,' the engineer stammered, 'the mechanism has magically enhanced sections and we have yet to see it in action.'

'I understand that. My concern is whether it could be employed against anyone attacking the causeway.'

Aroth was built on the shores of two lakes – a larger one, three miles across, that comprised nearly a quarter of the city's perimeter, and a smaller body of water that had been artificially created; it was less than a mile wide. Between the two was a narrow belt of land no more than a hundred yards wide that served as the main entrance to the city. This was considered Aroth's strongest point, and it was heavily defended with artillery-barges, positioned on both lakes, to turn the causeway into a killing ground. Naturally, that was where Lord Styrax had chosen to attack.

'Would it have the range? Aye, I'd expect so,' he said after a long while. 'Whether it could be brought to bear, that's more the question. They must have a way to tilt and turn it, because it's covering that entire flank, but it's one thing to cover half the circle; another entirely to go beyond that.'

'Especially with that loading system,' Styrax added, staring at the city. Aroth was set on a slight rise, making the tops of those towers the highest point for fifty miles in either direction, the lakes the lowest. Cultivated fields stretched into the distance on all sides, fertile lands that begged the question of whether King Emin could afford to continue his fighting retreat. Taking Aroth would shore up the Menin Army's supply-lines and change the complexion of the war – but Styrax had a different plan in mind to change the game here.

'Most likely they'd need a second reloading station, on the other side,' the engineer said, swallowing a hiccough.

'The effort would be worthwhile though,' Styrax mused, almost to himself. 'The smaller lake will have far fewer artillery-barges; it's the weaker flank – unless the fire-thrower can hit its far bank.'

The engineer didn't argue. He thought it unlikely they would have bothered; the long city wall at the back of Aroth unguarded by water was still the weaker point, and these defences had been designed before King Emin conquered the city. Chances were the builders hadn't worked through every scenario as the King of Narkang might.

'Gaur,' Styrax said over his shoulder, 'are they all in position?'

'They are, my Lord. Shall I give the order?'

'Not yet.' Styrax set off towards his saddled wyvern. As he put on his whorled black helm the creature snarled and crouched down, hind legs tensing with anticipation as Styrax climbed into the saddle and clipped the silver rings of his dragon-belt to it.

General Gaur advanced towards Styrax, stopping short as the wyvern's head lifted and its mouth opened hungrily. 'My Lord, this is not necessary. The Litse white-eyes have already scouted from the air.'

'Their mages weren't unduly panicked by the scouts, so another demonstration is in order. It – ' The white-eye paused and gathered up the wyvern's long reins. 'Trust me, my friend.'

With that he tugged hard on the reins and the wyvern unfurled its wings fully, with two half-beats to ready it, then, driving up with its powerful hind legs, it leapt into the air and caught the cool morning air. A longer stroke propelled it higher, and now it was turning in a lazy circle above their heads, climbing all the while.

Gaur watched the creature rise until it was hard to make out the figure on the wyvern's back, then he stalked over to the engineer, who took a half-pace back.

The engineer couldn't decipher the beastman's expression, but he recognised the sense of purpose in his stride.

'Get back to the baggage-train,' Gaur growled at the engineer. 'Your work here is done.'

Beyn peered forward, ignoring the bubble of chatter behind him. The King's Man was intent on movement several miles away, beyond the Hound Lake.

'Knew it,' he whispered to himself, 'I damned well knew it.' He turned and looked down the line of frightened soldiers until he found the general, half-hidden by an enormous nobleman and his white-eye bodyguard – one inferior in every way to the vicious ogre who'd inspired that latest Narkang fashion. General Aladorn had withered in his retirement; now he could barely see over the shoulder of a normal man, and whatever he was trying to say was being ignored as the nobleman, one Count Pellisorn of the Arothan Lords' Chamber, continued to fire demands at him.

'General, have the mages turn the weather, now!' Beyn called.

As he expected, Pellisorn just increased his volume, turned his back on Beyn and loomed over the elderly general.

'Soldier,' Beyn said quietly to the crossbowman next to him, holding his hand out.

The soldier handed over his weapon with a grin and watched Beyn quickly load it, raise the bow and put it to the bodyguard's ear. To his credit, the white-eye didn't flinch or move; he very sensibly stood stock-still.

'What the -?' the count started, but Beyn cut him off.

'Honour Council Pellisorn,' Beyn said in a calm voice, 'the enemy have made their first move. That means your authority is no longer recognised. The task appointed to me – by the king himself – is to ensure General Aladorn is unimpeded in his duties.'

Count Pellisorn leaned back with a look of distaste on his face, as though a favourite pet had just revealed yellow eyes and a forked tongue. Unlike most of the men assembled he was dressed in court-finery, his only armour a ceremonial gorget displaying his position on the Honour Council, the ruling body within the Lords' Chamber.

He was, however, a consummate politician, and he recovered as soon as he realised it was his bodyguard in danger, not he. 'I don't give a damn for the opinions of some low-born thug!' the count announced, his hand moving to his sword hilt. 'Unless you think threatening my man will earn you anything but a slow walk to the headsman, you will lower your weapon immediately.'

'Take your hand away from your sword, Honour Council,' Beyn advised. 'You're as fat as you are past your prime, so don't embarrass yourself further. I suggest you get out of my sight.'

'You a King's Man?' the white-eye rumbled. He was a block-faced specimen of indeterminate age with a bulbous brow and a nose broken many times – and old enough to have a shred of common sense, Beyn guessed from the look in his white eyes. He had to hope so, at any rate; they didn't have soldiers to spare in Aroth.

'I am.'

'Then ah'm takin' your orders,' the white-eye said ponderously, trying to watch the point of the bolt out of the corner of his eye. 'Is the law, I were told.'

Beyn heaved a sigh of relief that the king's decree had reached the white-eyes here. He lowered the crossbow and ordered, 'Step back, and remove your former employer from my sight, soldier. Use as much force as you think necessary.'

The white-eye's face split in into a grin, and Count Pellisorn's objections were cut short when his erstwhile bodyguard grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and hauled him towards the door by his jewel-inlaid gorget, leaving Beyn free to approach the general.

'What was that you said?' Aladorn demanded, squinting up at Beyn. 'Are they advancing?'

'I saw the wyvern; you have to get the mages to turn the weather, sir.'

'He's not going to attack all by himself,' Aladorn croaked, waving a liver-spotted claw dismissively. 'No need to waste their strength.'

'He can soften us up first,' Beyn said, 'we've nothing that can fire so high. You need to order the mages now, the only way to stop him is to threaten a storm.'

The general made a contemptuous sound. 'Afraid of thunder, is he?'

Beyn ground his teeth with frustration. He was used to folk believing him on matters of war. While General Aladorn might have been pretty good during the conquest of the kingdom, magic hadn't played a great part. Now he was just a stubborn old man, as far as Beyn could see.

'Lightning is attracted by magic,' he explained, as calmly as a man facing imminent death could, 'and he'll be up there raining the fury of Ghenna down upon us unless we do something to stop him!'

'And tire our mages in the process.'

'They can't stop him head-on, any road,' Beyn snapped, his patience gone. 'Magic ain't going to win this for us, only our bloody artillery.'

General Aladorn scowled at Beyn, his mouth becoming even more pinched and wrinkled as he thought. 'Very well, lieutenant, give the order,' he said at last to an aide standing by the door.

The man saluted and turned stiffly about.

'Run, you fuck!' roared Beyn after him, startling the man out of his formality and sending him scrabbling through the door.

Once the lieutenant had gone Beyn turned his back on the rest of the assembled command staff and remaining councillors, uncaring of their reproachful faces. He wasn't there for decorum, after all, and right now he had bigger concerns. Out of those assembled, all of Aroth's ruling circles, Beyn was the only one showing any genuine concern for the coming siege. The councillors and nobles alike were all claiming they had supplies enough to outlast the enemy, and the soldiers were confident in both their defences and their prowess. But Beyn had seen nothing to give him any confidence at all in either claim.

The king's order to refuse battle was pronounced cautious prudence, nothing more, conceding unimportant ground. That the kingdom's second city might actually fall to the Menin didn't appear to have occurred to any of them, and Beyn knew if he mentioned the possibility he'd be laughed out the room.

Damn fools, Beyn thought, as uncharacteristic doubts marched through his mind. Not one person's noticed I'm the only King's Man here. None of the king's best warriors or mages have been sent to join this defence. His hand clenched as a sense of helplessness unexpectedly washed over him. When the king himself doesn't believe we can stand against them, what chance do we have?

Styrax pulled back on the wyvern's reins and brought it around into a thermal to climb higher. The beast resisted his urging for a moment, eager to be at the prey ahead, before tilting its wings in response.

Patience, Styrax thought, as much to himself as the wyvern. Let them see us and react. Let them have the small victory of driving me off.

Every fibre of his body railed at the idea, but he battered it down. He knew the flaws of his kind well enough, and he possessed every one, but there had been one guiding rule to his life: that he would choose his own path – not the Gods, not daemons, not the will of other men. And certainly not my own rage.

Just the thought of Kohrad was enough to produce a spiked knot at the back of his mind, but he gritted his teeth and fought it, letting the wyvern climb and circle above the city.

Without control I am no better than Dervek Grast, Styrax reminded himself, and that I refuse to be.

The words were like a mantra, one oft-repeated of late. Grast, the reviled former Lord of the Menin, had been a monster, made worse by his intellect. The man hadn't been a savage, the unthinking and deranged killer most preferred to think him; there had been method, and strength of will to support his vicious delusions. For all of his forerunner's brutality, Styrax believed Grast's crimes would pale into insignificance next to the devastation he would wreak if he allowed grief to sway him.

If I allow myself to be ruled by grief, he thought firmly, if. There will be crimes enough without that.

He thumped a fist against the side of his helm to wake himself up. The wyvern began to strain beneath him as it continued to climb so he corrected it with a twitch of the reins and it settled immediately, wings outstretched. It could soar like this, many hundreds of feet above the city, for hours, travelling faster than any horse, and in theory a mage as powerful as Styrax could shatter a city's walls in that time.

It wouldn't happen, though, there must be more than a dozen mages living inside a city of that size, quite enough to call the clouds above closer. He would cause some damage certainly, but not enough to risk being plucked from the air and smashed on the rocks below. No, he would resist the temptation, just as he would the growling animal in his gut that wanted to attack, to dive screaming onto the enemy and cut them to pieces before the rest of the army even caught up.

From the city below he detected a vibration in the afternoon air: a subtle, gentle stroke of magic, soaring up like the first notes of a symphony. It was joined by others, though most lacking the finesse of the first, a few exceeding it for power, and each a variation on a common theme.

One of their mages knows what he's about, Styrax thought approvingly, pushing briefly on the wyvern's neck to send it into a long, shallow dive. You could have taught the Farlan boy a thing or two; the elements are to be cajoled, not compelled. A mortal makes demands at their peril.

He could almost taste the thin streams of magic rising above the city. The air whipped past his face until the wyvern banked of its own accord and the buffeting lessened. A sparkle of energy tingled over his skin, adding renewed vigour to the breeze and sending a familiar frisson down Styrax's neck.

Styrax peered down at the defences below as a few hopeful archers fired up at him, but their arrows fell hopelessly short. Now the wyvern had carried him down, closer to the city, he could pick out where the enemy mages were located.

I could pluck out your hearts right now, burst them like overripe fruit and leave you dead on the ground as a warning to the rest, he thought grimly. From the lower plain he surveyed the staggered defences of the causeway: earthworks flanking a long stone building that was built around a central archway straddling the road. A pair of guard-towers were set behind the earthworks, but they were small, barely big enough to hold more than two squads, and the Tollkeeper's Arch itself would prove little more of an inconvenience.

The causeway defences had been built for commerce, not war. Further back, strung between buildings, was a hastily built defensive wall – it was feeble enough to show they didn't really believe anyone would make it that far. On either side of the road the ground was broken up by angled ditches, and at one point between the wall and arch, a small canal allowed shallow-hulled scows to pass between the lakes. Though the two bridges across the canal had been dismantled, it was small, and anyway, the Menin Army had their own bridges to hand.

It would be a slaughter ground if the artillery barges were allowed free reign, but with a little help from Aroth's mages, those would be dealt with before the troops arrived.

Didn't you hear? Styrax asked the distant mages below, I've already conquered Ilit's chosen people. The wind is mine to command now.

He turned in a long circle, following the perimeter wall of the city and noting what he could of the defences. The bulk of their soldiers were mustered in ordered blocks in the southwest of the city, where the ground was most open. From the air Aroth looked kidney-shaped, with a mile-long jetty protruding into Lake Apatorn. From here it was impossible to make out the delineation between the part built on stilts hammered into the lakebed and where the foundations were dry ground. But soon enough that wouldn't matter.

Guiding the wyvern lower Styrax placed his unarmoured hand against the Crystal Skull in the centre of his cuirass, the one named Destruction. He'd found the differences between them were small, like the minuscule flaws that made each of a dozen gems unique.

Styrax could name each of his Crystal Skulls solely by the way it caught the light, but from his experiments he believed the only one markedly different was the last; Ruling. That one would be a handful to use in battle, he suspected, but the rest had only slight tendencies towards certain magics – tendencies that made Destruction less effort to use now.

He drew energy into a ball around the Skull and heard the thump of his heart echo through the magic. The bloody stains underneath his fingernails seemed to lighten and come alive as a smooth lattice of red-tinted light formed around the magic-scarred hand. Even as his heartbeat quickened, Styrax felt a calmness descend as the magic washed all emotion from his mind.

Up above the clouds rolled in, coiling like a threatened snake above his head. He felt his ears pop as the pressure started to fall and the wind streaming past turned cool. Styrax looked down to gauge the distance to the yellow mud-brick walls of Aroth below. Still out of bowshot, he reined the wyvern back a little and it arced neatly up, head stretched out and watching the scuttling food beneath.

At the end of the wall was the nearer tower, an enormous construction that, with its mate on the larger lake, dominated the entire city. The tower was round, and two hundred feet high, with wooden platforms attached to the outside and a mess of timber on top that at first glance looked like a collapsed roof.

Styrax leaned out from his saddle, twitching the reins to correct the wyvern's flight as it adjusted to the shift in weight. The energy around his fist was coalescing and growing hotter with every moment, tiny licks of flame beginning to drift from one strand of the skein to another. Styrax grimaced as the heat stung his more sensitive hand, the ragged swirls of scar becoming dark shadows against the white before it was obscured entirely by the magic.

They reached the tower and Styrax wrenched the wyvern over, tilting it to glide with one wing pointing at the wall below. At the same time he tore his hand away from the Skull and released the strands of magic engulfing it. He watched them leap away like a net cast behind a boat. Holding tight to his saddle with his right hand, Styrax guided the wyvern around in a tight spiral, swinging dangerously low over the city to avoid its slender tail catching on the trail of magic.

As they passed, the net of magic snagged on the tower's wall and latched on. The remaining energies unravelling from his hand were violently jerked clear and the unfolding net dropped down over the contraption on the tower roof. It caught two thirds of the entire roof surface, a close-knit blanket of fire that sagged off the weapon's protruding edges and ran like molten iron down its sides.

This close he saw the faces of the gunners manning the fire-thrower, staring up in horror at the descending threads of light. The quickest few ducked under the wooden arm of the thrower, but the threads burst into flame as soon as they touched wood or flesh. As the first started screaming, Styrax pulled the wyvern up into a climb. He had no need to hear the cries of pain as the threads cut through flesh and bone. He knew none would survive. The trailing threads had caught it squarely enough to set the entire tower alight.

The wyvern flapped heavily in the suddenly close, heavy air, struggling for a moment to climb before rising above the handful of artillery boats stationed on the Hound Lake and pushing on to the Menin Army beyond. Styrax turned and sensed the calls to the sky renewed with fearful vigour, the magic becoming ragged with haste. Before his eyes the clouds darkened and turned threatening.

'Most obliging of you,' he murmured. He looked towards his own army and saw the troops had begun to advance to the edge of the artillery barges' range. 'Now see how the winds come to your aid,' he shouted.

Beyn charged up the wooden stair, his boots drumming a hollow tattoo that warned those in his way to move. The Tollhouse was an odd-shaped building, the guard platforms at the top a mere afterthought of construction. He ducked his head through the doorway and blinked away the gloom of inside, heading straight towards General Aladorn, who stood at the thin horizontal window on the eastern wall.

'General, the fire-thrower's almost entirely destroyed,' Beyn blurted out, not bothering with formality now. 'It's inoperable, even if we could replace the gunners quickly.'

'But why,' asked the general, still squinting out of the window, though Beyn knew the old man's eyes were not good enough to see the enemy. 'Why destroy that one in particular?'

'Because he intends to attack that flank,' blurted out Suzerain Etharain, standing next to the general. He was the ruler of the region west of Aroth, and second chair of the Honour Council, but he was an inexperienced soldier.

'Bah, too obvious for this one. Beyn, any reports of the other legions moving?'

The King's Man shook his head. 'They're holding position beyond artillery range.'

The Menin Army had split into three groups to surround the city, each digging defensive encampments to ward off Narkang sorties. Worryingly, one of the armies was composed mainly of Chetse legions, which suggested the invasion force had increased in size since crossing the Waste.

'Daily runs?' Aladorn said, cocking his head at Beyn. 'He waits for the weather to clear and takes out the next – before long his troops have a free run at the walls, eh?'

'It gives us time to repair,' Beyn pointed out. 'The sky looks ugly now, might take days to clear, and the man's in a hurry – sooner he takes Aroth, the less time he gives the king to prepare.'

Aladorn shook his head. 'Only a fool would plan it so – to try and win the war at a stroke is to forget to win the battle. Let them try to take the city in a day; I would welcome it!' The old man had a defiant look in his eyes, as though daring Beyn to argue.

The King's Man looked away, realising he wasn't going to win any arguments here. Before the silence could stretch out further the first fat raindrops began to fall on the flat tarred roof of the guardroom. Etharain raised an eyebrow as the rain increased rapidly in the next few moments and a rumble of thunder echoed from the heavens. In less than a minute the rain had developed into a deluge.

'The mages know their work,' he commented. The suzerain was a fit-looking man of forty-odd winters. His father had been a trusted captain of General Aladorn's during the conquest of the Three Cities and he had made sure his son knew how to use the sword he carried, but like so many of Narkang's soldiers he'd never been tested in battle. 'Gods, look at it out there. The ground'll be hard going for anyone marching on our walls.'

'Don't rejoice yet,' Beyn said, looking out. The suzerain was right, the mages had done well and a furious rainstorm now battered the city. 'It cuts our visibility, makes life tough for our artillery – Karkarn's iron balls, I reckon they've overshot this time!'

Deafening peals of thunder crashed out across the plain. A great gust of wind flung a curtain of rain across their view, briefly obscuring everything apart from the dull yellow of the Tollkeeper's Arch ahead. The wind continued to strengthen, becoming a great fist of rain sweeping across the Land. Beyn could just make out the inelegant shapes of the artillery barges, lurching on the lakes.

'Hastars?' General Aladorn snapped, turning to glare at the mage behind him. 'Order them to desist!'

The mage blanched at Aladorn's wrinkled face, despite the fact he was more than a foot taller than the general, bigger even than Beyn. 'This is not the work of the coterie,' Hastars yelped in protest. 'They broke off before he returned!' he added, pointing at Beyn.

'This isn't natural,' Beyn said, advancing towards the mage. 'Look at it.'

Hastars closed his eyes, mouthing a few words then pausing, as though listening to a voice inside his head. The man was modestly gifted, but he was knowledgeable, and able at least to communicate from afar with the two dozen others sitting with linked hands in a nearby warehouse. There were only two battle-mages, but this coterie in unison would most likely serve a more useful purpose against the Menin's overwhelming strength anyway.

Hastars gasped and staggered back, hands clutching his head. A grizzled marshal grabbed him before he fell, but Hastars still looked dazed when he opened his eyes. 'Gods preserve us!' he moaned, 'the storm is being fuelled – The Menin, they are pouring energies into the sky!'

The mage sank to his knees, gulping down air. 'Such power, such power! I barely reached out and…' he tailed off, shaking uncontrollably.

Beyn scowled as the rest of the room fluttered round the mage, returning to the view with a growing sense of trepidation. Outside the weather was worsening, grey trails dancing and whirling through the air with increasing fury. Two bursts of thunder boomed out in quick succession, then another as a lance of lightning flashed down to strike the Tollkeeper's Arch.

Oh Gods.

On the surface of the lake something rose up from the water. Though they were indistinct, the grey-blue shapes were far from human. Beyn felt his guts turn ice-cold as the figures reached up to the heavens and began to grow, drifting over the water to form a circle. All around them the storm slashed at the lake and ripped furrows through the surface, churning and spinning into ever-tightening spirals. The figures twisted and danced, writhing with frenetic energy as the lake became increasingly choppy.

'Oh Gods,' came a distant voice, muted against the howl of the wind through the gaps in the wooden walls. Beyn found Suzerain Etharain beside him, face white with horror as he too realised what was happening.

The artillery barges and their attendant boats were rocking violently; Beyn caught sight of one smaller craft just as it was smashed against a massive catapult platform. A great spinning column of water heaved up from the surface on the furthest part of Lake Apatorn, and a terrible, unnatural shriek pierced the air.

Around the tower's base danced half a dozen water elementals, the spirits of the lake, whipped into a frenzy of power, while the wind heaved and thrashed around them. Malviebrat were known for their savage, remorseless nature, and now they were being fed power by a grief-stricken white-eye.

The clouds reached down to embrace the huge waterspout, enveloping it with dark, nebulous hands. Thunder continued to crash all around as the storm surged. A sheet of water washed across the narrow window and Beyn and Etharain both flinched back. The King's Man realised he was digging his fingernails into the wooden sill. With a great groan the waterspout lurched abruptly forward and Etharain moaned with dismay as it started for the barges.

The smaller craft started away from its terrible path, only to be hunted down by the tornado's savage outriders. Standing tall on the water, twice the height of any man, the water elementals smashed and pummelled at men and boats alike, battering both into broken pieces while the waterspout roared on. With one final lurch it caught the first of the artillery barges and ripped the arm from its catapult.

The great wooden beam was tossed high in the air, discarded like a broken match. The rest of the weapon soon followed, then the entire barge was flipped on its side with careless ease and hurled end-over-end to carve a path of destruction through the remaining scows.

The tornado charged inexorably for the next, driven by a vicious will, and ripped it apart, plank by plank. One, then two, then four, all of them torn apart like the toys of an enraged Godchild, while the Malviebrat danced and worshipped at its base, the shrieking wind a fitting prayer for their monstrous fervour. In seconds the artillery barges had been reduced to kindling, and now the waterspout lurched again, changing direction to rip a path over the stony shore of the causeway. The air filled with dirt and the tornado took on a darker hue as it gathered weapons to smash the remaining flotilla on the Hound Lake, already abandoned by its terrified crews.

'Summon the troops,' Beyn whispered hoarsely, his throat suddenly dry. 'They're coming up the causeway. Piss and daemons, they'll punch straight into the city unless we stop them at the wall!'

'Move you bastards!' the sergeant roared as wardrums sounded from the back of the legion.

The heavy beat rolled over the thousand soldiers who moved off, spear-points high. Behind them the scarred savages of the Chetse Lion Guard bellowed, axes raised high as they screamed their berserk rage at the distant enemy. The rain continued to beat down, smearing the blue painted symbols adorning their segmented bronze breastplates.

The Chetse warriors wore bronze helms sporting Lord Styrax's Fanged Skull emblem, with gauntlets and greaves all built to be used as additional weapons. Every other man carried a heavy shield on his back, for when arrows were raining down or they were about to charge a wall of spear-points.

Lord Styrax nudged his wyvern forward and looked down the line of troops. The massive creature huffed and waddled forward, unused to walking with its wings furled but obeying. The flight had temporarily drained its eagerness for battle, he was glad to note, not intending to use the creature further. For the first time his Chetse allies and own heavy infantry would fight side by side. He wanted to be in the midst of them, leading from the front and reminding them all why they followed him.

A bolt of lightning arced down from the heavens with an ear-splitting crash, striking the smoking tower Styrax had already attacked, adding to the ruin. From his position atop the wyvern he could see the wreckage of boats and barges on the two lakes. His arm was outstretched toward the Hound Lake, fist half-closed, as he contained and controlled the power of the waterspout. It was smaller now, its energy bleeding up into the ever-darkening clouds above as the storm howled with increasing fury, driven on by Styrax's steady release of the magic until it was safe to let free.

The Menin troops were undaunted. With two regiments out in front they tramped with grim purpose towards the causeway, tight ranks of steel-clad infantry forcing their way through the deepening mud.

Styrax dismounted and beckoned over a messenger. 'Tell General Gaur he has the command,' Styrax roared over the shrieking wind. Once he was stuck in the thick of the fighting, Styrax knew he'd be in no position to issue tactical commands.

The messenger's reply was lost in the tumult, but his salute indicated he'd heard the white-eye's order. Gaur was stationed with the rearguard, waiting to give the order to the flanking divisions to march on the city, assuming there were no surprises waiting.

As the messenger hurried away Styrax waited for the legion to move ahead and his bodyguard to fall into position beside him. A regiment of Bloodsworn knights, much of their heavy black armour stripped down so they could march on foot, quickly took up their positions around him. The fanatical Menin elite numbered only five hundred in total: a mix of young nobles and experienced soldiers, the match of any troops in the Land. It was rare to see them on foot – they were normally the heart of a Menin cavalry charge – but their horses would be no use here.

The troops on the road made good progress, unassailed by defenders on land or water, and within minutes they were at the Tollkeeper's Arch. The long stone building had been abandoned by the city's defenders, and although regiments of archers were stationed behind the shallow canal, a hundred yards from the Tollkeeper's Arch, the wind and rain took their toll.

The leading regiments barely noticed the falling arrows as they swarmed over the yellowstone building, and when the remaining legions reached the arch and began to negotiate the ditches flanking it, the archers and crossbowmen gave up entirely and scampered back towards their lines, leaving the Menin free to reform their ranks at leisure on the causeway.

Styrax made his way to the long central hall of the Tollkeeper's Arch, past the abandoned stations where goods were checked and taxed before entering the city. At the other end he stared out at Aroth. On his right the rain, funnelled by some quirk of the roof, formed a sheet of falling water that almost entirely obscured his view of the larger lake. He took a long breath and tasted the air; the rain had washed away all other scents, leaving the morning air clean. Under the deluge Aroth seemed smaller, diminished somehow. Its sandstone towers took on an aged and decrepit mien, like long-abandoned watchtowers on an unused frontier.

'My Lord,' called a man behind him, and Styrax turned to see Army Messenger Karapin standing to attention, a rare fervour in the man's grey eyes. Karapin had volunteered to follow him into battle, his ceremonial brass vambraces and a broadsword his only protection as he waited to carry his lord's orders. He had been born less than fifty miles from Styrax's home village, and he considered the risk to be the greatest honour of his life.

'All ready?' Styrax asked.

'The legions are in position,' Karapin confirmed with a bow.

'Drummers, sound the attack.' Styrax heard the hunger in his own voice, the red rage straining to be released. If Karapin noticed, he made no sign as he stepped out into the rain and signalled the nearest regimental drummer. In moments the call was taken up and the Menin troops roared their approval.

Amidst the tumult he could still make out the thousands of Chetse voices bellowing lustily, ready to follow him to war. Styrax stepped out from the arch, surveying his men as he drew his fanged broadsword. The clamour increased a notch as the first ranks set off, within them units of engineers who carried the temporary bridges for the canal.

The Bloodsworn knights gathered around him and one unfurled Styrax's stark black and red banner. Styrax reached over and plucked the tall standard from the man's hands, raising it and turning to the troops behind him, both Menin and Chetse.

'Tell them!' he shouted over the tramp of feet and the pouring rain, 'raise your voices and tell them we're coming! Tell them even the Gods themselves should fear us!'

The thousands of soldiers howled in response and hammered weapons on their shields. The sound boomed out across the Land in rising waves, almost drowning out the thunder that crashed over the city. Legion after legion lifted their heads and roared a warning to the skies. In the distance the towers of Aroth reverberated, shuddering behind the curtain of rain.

Beyn ran forward, beating at the disordered mob and screaming himself hoarse in an effort to get them to move. Frightened faces turned his way, uncomprehending, until those in the lead finally set off again.

'You! Captain! Look at me, you fuck!' Beyn yelled, lurching to the left as he spotted another regiment of pikemen appearing around the corner of a building. It was only when Beyn fought his way over and grabbed the captain by the throat that he caught his attention. 'You, what's your name?'

The young man looked at him in blind panic for a moment, struggling in vain to free himself. The soldiers around him started forward, then shrank back as they saw the golden bees on Beyn's armour, the mark of the king.

Beyn shook him like a terrier, and screamed for the third time, 'Your name, soldier!'

'Dapplin,' the young captain croaked shakily, 'Captain Dapplin of the First City Legion.'

'Congratulations, Captain,' Beyn shouted, 'you've got a mission.' He gestured at the ground between them and the makeshift wall they'd constructed across a bottleneck of loading stations at the wharf. In the centre stood the Tollhouse, the semi-fortified building where the customs-tolls were kept before being moved to the city treasury. General Aladorn and his cohorts had been evacuated and replaced with archers. Behind the wall was a line of troops, three-deep at the moment, with officers frantically trying to drive more in behind. Thought they looked formidable, they were raw troops holding spears in trembling hands, and the Menin had more than just minotaurs to breach the line.

'Grab another regiment from your lot and form up in squad blocks behind the main line of archers.' He gave the captain another shake. 'Don't get sucked in until your job's done, and don't, for pity's sake, get in the way of the reinforcement troops!'

'You don't want us to fight?' Dapplin yelled back, recovering his senses. 'The order was to send every last man on the streets to the wall.'

'You get a shittier job,' Beyn said. 'They'll use the Reavers to breach the line; your job's to stick those bastards full of steel before they get that chance!'

'Reavers?' Dapplin gasped, the colour draining from his face.

'Aye, Reavers – now you just shut that fucking mouth before I shove my fist down it! They'll be coming a handful at a time, so each squad surrounds 'em and works together. Do it as soon as they land and you'll have a better day than the rest of us.' Beyn grabbed the captain by the arm and shoved him towards the mass of soldiers. 'Move it!'

Once Dapplin had started to lead his men away, Beyn surveyed the chaotic mass of soldiers. The line was forming as well as he could hope, and tight knots of archers were grouping behind, waiting for the order to fire. What state their weapons would be in was anyone's guess.

The ground either side of the road was sodden, so at least the Menin would have to struggle through a sucking swamp to reach them, it was a poor blessing when the storm was soaking bowstrings and blowing away range-finding arrows like dandelion seeds.

'Cober,' he shouted, looking around blindly until he found the white-eye most recently in the employ of Count Pellisorn. Since the count had been packed off to command the defence of the north wall, Cober had been following Beyn around like a puppy – albeit a puppy carrying a very large axe. Like Daken, King Emin's newest pet, the white-eye was actually an inch shorter than Beyn, but he was far more powerful – and unlike Daken, Cober seemed happy enough to follow Beyn's orders, trusting there would be a fight at the end of it.

'Come on,' Beyn beckoned, leading Cober towards the wall. 'We've work to do.' They gathered every man holding a weapon they could and handed them over to one of the officers commanding the wall, who squeezed them into the defensive line. It was untidy, but Beyn knew they weren't going to win this battle on the straightness of their columns. Their only – slim – chance was to hold on weight of numbers, and that meant pressing into service every man who could hold a spear, and keeping such a press of bodies there that the Menin couldn't break through.

Before he reached the wall warning cries began to come from the front rank. Beyn craned his head until he could just make out the line of spear-points advancing on the wall.

'Down on one knee,' he snapped at Cober.

The white-eye didn't question him, but dropped immediately, as ordered, and Beyn pulled himself onto Cober's substantial thigh, balancing himself with a hand on his shoulder, to raise himself above the defenders. The Menin were close, less than a hundred yards from the wall.

'Archers!' he bellowed, waving frantically, 'Fire, as low as you dare!'

The order was relayed quickly. Half of the raised troops were farmers and citizens, conscripted into service, and useful for little more than wielding a spear and swelling the ranks, but amongst the professionals, there were hundreds of fair archers, and Beyn had seeded the units with as many experienced soldiers as he could spare.

Now they took over, screaming themselves hoarse and leading by example. Though the first volley was ragged, the second was an improvement as the bowmen started to get a feel for the cross-wind.

Beyn left them to it and went to shout with the sergeants in the line bellowing for the troops to hold their ground. More men appeared, running to join the rear ranks, waiting for their time of need.

A deep roar rang out: the sound of a thousand voices, foreign voices and more, shouting as they charged. Beyn felt the impact through his feet as much as he heard it, and he was tugging his axes from his belt as the first screams came.

'Aroth and the king!' he roared, holding one axe up high, and the call was picked up by all those around him and rippled through the defenders.

From behind the archers a line of trumpeters and other musicians began to sound their instruments: they all played the same notes, a repeated refrain with no specific meaning other than to add to the noise of battle. He hoped the strange cacophony would remind the soldiers of their homes and their families, whose survival rested on their men holding the line. It wasn't much, but Beyn knew soldiers would cling to any small hope to give themselves cheer.

'Not today,' the King's Man growled. 'I'm not fucking dying today.'

Kastan Styrax watched his troops throwing themselves with abandon at the enemy. As they slammed into the wall, some succeeded in driving the spears aside with their shields before stabbing with their own, others were impaled, and in their haste some smashed straight into the wall itself, a hastily built mishmash of rubble and sodden wood that stopped them in their tracks and left them staring at the face of some astonished Arothan barely inches away.

The Menin infantry pounded at the varied array of weapons, driven on by bloodlust and the press of ranks behind. Styrax himself couldn't reach the defenders, such was the mass of his men attacking the wall. Another volley of arrows flew into the Menin and Chetse troops, and more came from the buildings, though most were blown about by the gale and dropped like exhausted sparrows, their energy spent.

Styrax threw a lance of flame at the nearest city building, and an orange-gold stream of fire illuminated the sodden combatants below. Before it struck, the flames were wrenched upwards and soared over the roofs of the city like a comet before dissipating into nothingness.

Styrax smiled grimly and drew on the Skulls fused to his armour. He threw a crackling burst of iron-grey energy at the building, and this too was diverted by Aroth's mages, although its tail clipped one corner of the roof, exploding some tiles. The pieces clattered down onto those below, and told Styrax all he needed to know about the mages defending the city.

He was quite safe from attack by them; that much he was certain. The vast majority were men and women with minor skills, sitting within a network of defensive wards and channelling their power to the strongest. That one knew what he or she was doing well enough, whether or not they were a battle-mage. How long they could defend against his efforts depended on how many they numbered, but Styrax didn't care – endless power was his to command…It would be easy, he thought, to get carried away as he punched through the mages' defences. For the first time in years, Styrax didn't trust himself not to get lost in the storm of magic. Even a white-eye of his skill could easily be overwhelmed by such colossal energies, and grief had made him ragged at the edges. It would be easy for him to become careless and unfocused.

Let this be a victory for the army, he thought with a quickening sense of anticipation; let it belong to the soldiers alone.

He turned and waved forward the minotaurs, who were straining to drag the battering ran along the road that was swiftly turning to mud. Behind them came the Reavers. He would commit the regiments of white-eyes soon enough – their value was in exploiting vulnerabilities once he threw them into play.

As Styrax advanced towards the wall and joined the press of soldiers, a burgeoning corona of light played around his shoulders. The troops made space for him quickly enough so he could attack the nearest Arothan troops with his spitting whipcords of bright white energy.

At such short range the coterie of defending mages could do little to defend the men and as their screams of agony rang out, so the Menin soldiers cheered and pressed harder against the line, ignoring the dead at their feet except to step over them.

On the right the minotaurs got the battering ram into position and started to drive it forward. A bronze head capped the pointed tip of the ram, inscribed by Lord Larim with runes of fire and strength. As it struck the heavy door to the Tollhouse with an almighty thump, so fire burst out from the bronze head and licked over the iron-bound wood of the door.

The fire quickly dissipated when the ram was dragged back, but the wood remained scorched, and every time the head hit it burned a little more. The minotaurs bellowed with frustration and rage as the door continued to resist, most likely blocked with rubble behind, but they kept at their task.

Above them a handful of archers braved the Menin arrows to lean out and shoot down at the minotaurs. One was successful, catching the largest of the beasts in the neck and causing it to reel away in mortal agony, then the Menin bowmen responded, peppering the upper levels of the Tollhouse.

Styrax added to their efforts as the archers reloaded, casting deep-red tendrils at the wooden upper levels. The tendrils grew rapidly, reaching out like blind snakes. When one reached the window it slid inside and Styrax heard screams a few moments later.

Shortly afterwards the city's mages came to their rescue, deftly unravelling the skein of magic and allowing the force to dissipate on the wind. Only a black stain, darker than flame-scars, was left, but it had done its work and Styrax returned his attentions to the ranks of defenders.

He could feel the presence of the defending mages all around him, waiting to unravel his next spell, so instead he fed the inexhaustible power of the Skulls into Kobra, his unnatural black sword – and there was nothing they could do to divert that as Styrax began to barge his way towards the enemy, his weapon raised and humming with barely restrained power. The air seemed to darken around him, turning mid-morning to dusk as Kobra's bloodthirsty magic shone out from the sword's blade. In response, Styrax's black whorled armour began to leak smoky trails of magic that swarmed and coiled like a mass of snakes. Before he reached the enemy he could see the fear etched clear on their faces.

Beyn wiped a palm across his face, clearing the rain from his eyes. Voices came from all directions; there was a clatter and crash of weapons from the wall and a deep, reverberating thump from the Tollhouse. He and Cober entered the fortified treasury by a side door, to be met by anxious faces.

'The rubble's not going to hold!' one young lieutenant said, terror making his voice high and strained. He pointed through an open doorway to the mound of stone and debris that occupied half of the far room.

'Well, make sure it bloody does!' Beyn snapped. 'Shore the damn thing up – we're in a city, aren't we? How hard can it be to find rubble – or make some?'

The lieutenant blanched and gave Beyn a shaky salute before hurrying outside. Men sat or squatted in the empty interior of the Tollhouse, working the stiffness from their fingers. They were working in shifts, shooting from the slit windows, and the blood on several uniforms told Beyn it wasn't all one-way traffic.

He went through into the front room; the makeshift barricade was indeed shuddering and shifting with every impact on the door. While the main doorway was blocked right up to the lintel, once the wooden frame gave way, the doorway was wide enough that they'd be able to haul much of the debris away.

'Damn,' he muttered, stalking outside again.

There were soldiers everywhere: reinforcements, running up to the wall in groups of fifty or a hundred, and auxiliaries, humping fat bundles of arrows forward for the archers. The sky had lightened a little, but that only served to make clearer the true horror of their situation.

A line of men was strung across the causeway, thousands committed to the fight in one go, and hundreds were already dead. Those at the front were barely fighting; they just stood behind shield and spear and allowed those behind them to hold spears above their heads and thrust at the enemy, who were doing likewise. It was a battle of attrition. Beyn had several thousand men in reserve – but so did the Menin.

A piercing shriek of jubilation cut through the brutal clash of steel on steel, sending a chill down Beyn's spine. He looked up, and saw a pair of dark shapes in the sky hurtling towards him.

'Dapplin!' he roared at the nearest unit of pikemen, 'get ready!'

The squad moved forward as the captain yelled orders, but still they barely had time to get into position before the first of the Reavers arrived. Squatting low over a blade-edged shield, the Menin white-eye smashed into Dapplin's men. His long braided black hair flying, the Reaver tore a bloody path through them, the shield cutting through flesh wherever it touched, until it slowed enough for the white-eye to roll off, grab it and loop the leather hold over his shield-arm, and start towards the archers beyond.

Beyn caught sight of the weird tattoos and scars that adorned his face, which was contorted in berserk rage as the Reaver hacked at the archers with his great spiked axe. Two men fell almost at once, then another as the white-eye turned around and slashed a man's chest with his razor-edged shield.

As Beyn raced towards the frenzied white-eye, Cober hard on his heel, the Menin abruptly changed direction and launched himself at the pair like a whirlwind of steel. His speed almost caught them out, his axe whipping around to catch them mid-step. Beyn managed to abandon his charge in time, throwing himself to the ground and skidding under the warrior's outstretched arm, but Cober was not so lucky – Beyn heard a crunch of blade parting mail.

The King's Man twisted as he slid on the rain-slicked cobbles and hacked at the Menin white-eye's foot as his momentum took him through the Reaver's legs. Before he'd come to a halt Beyn was turning, one weapon above his head, while he jabbed the other at the unprotected back of the Reaver's knee. The Reaver arched in agony, but his howl of pain was cut short as one of the archers fired at almost point-blank range. The arrow punched a hole in the Reaver's cuirass and threw the white-eye backwards onto Beyn, who collapsed under the enormous white-eye. He desperately tried to free his weapons before realising it was dead weight on him, not a living enemy.

'Don't just stand there!' he cried, struggling to get the dead man off him, 'bloody shoot the rest of them!'

As he got to his feet he saw the other Reaver had been surrounded and impaled, but several soldiers had been lost in the fight. The victory was short-lived as four more Reavers landed, flying directly into the defending line like an artillery strike. Those at the back turned to the nearest reserve squad, while the other two charged into the undefended rear of the battle line and began to slaughter the spearmen.

'Get to them!' Beyn roared, then he faltered as he looked down and saw Cober, still on the ground. The white-eye's hands were clasped around his neck and blood flowed freely from between his fingers. His mouth was open, as if he was trying to speak. Beyn looked into Cober's eyes and saw the horror there: the pain, and the fear of his impending death.

A wave of anguish swept over Beyn and his knees wobbled for a moment, but there wasn't time, not even for a man's last moments of life. Cober's body spasmed, and his mouth moved again, but no words came out.

His face tight with rage, Beyn turned away and headed for the fighting.

Styrax heard the door finally shatter to triumphant bellows from the minotaurs. The huge horned beasts started on the barricade filling the door, eagerly grabbing the lumps of rock and tossing them carelessly behind, drool hanging from their gaping jaws as they worked. The Menin lord fought his way clear of his soldiers and went around to the shattered remains of the Tollhouse's main entrance. The bronze head of the ram was a mess, but it had done its job, and inside the pile of rubble had already started to slip away.

Realising others would fit through the breach more easily Styrax let a sliver of magic run over his tongue as he shouted to the minotaurs, 'Withdraw! Be ready to breach the wall.'

The great beasts turned and regarded him. Bloodlust clouded their senses for a moment, before they understood the order. Even the smallest were bigger than Styrax, with their limbs like tree boughs and great jutting horns that were as much weapons as the maces and clubs they carried. They wore no armour, but one lucky neck-shot aside, the several who had arrows protruding from their flesh were unconcerned, for their skin was tougher than leather.

Without waiting for a response Styrax gathered a fistful of flame and launched it into the building. The fire flowed over the chunks of rock and debris with serpentine speed, and Styrax was rewarded with the chilling screams of the defenders. He reached up and grasped the inside edge of the doorway, bracing himself against it while allowing more power to flood through his body. He swung himself up and kicked forcibly at the top of the rubble. For a moment nothing happened, then a great rumble heralded a landslide on the other side and Styrax clambered through the gap at the top. He heard whoops and warcries from the Chetse troops as they followed him, dragging more stones out of the way to clear a path for their comrades.

The moment he was inside, he swept Kobra forward to behead the one soldier still standing, then moved through to the next room and cut down the three archers who had left it too late to flee. Two more soldiers ran in, their spears levelled, and charged the Lord of the Menin, but with a wave of his hand a shield of misty grey appeared before him, the spearheads glanced sideways, and Styrax stepped around his magical defence and beheaded the pair.

Now his Chetse warriors were through too, and half a dozen moved past him, their axes ready for the next defenders foolish enough to try to plug the breach. Styrax let them go on ahead as he turned to the left-hand wall. He took a deep breath and flattened his pale left hand against the Crystal Skulls on his chest. The shadows inside the Tollhouse were banished by a bright light which wrapped around his black armour. Styrax felt a small pain at the back of his head as he drew deeper on the Skulls than he'd intended, but he didn't relent.

There was a bricked-up doorway in the wall; he'd seen it from the outside. It looked as if there had once been another part to this building, and this originally an internal wall, and so it was likely weaker than the rest. Styrax dipped his shoulder and ran straight into the wall beside of the doorway. The entire building shuddered as a blaze of light exploded from his magic-laden armour, momentarily igniting the mortar between the stones.

Styrax backed up and charged again, and this time he felt the stones buckle under the pressure. A third blow, and a section of the wall toppled down onto the soldiers behind it. For good measure Styrax kicked the doorframe again, sending another cascade of stones onto the Arothans outside. For a moment all he could see was the dust of the fallen building, then the screaming began as the Menin soldiers surged forward.

Behind them charged the minotaurs, shoving aside the Menin infantry in their eagerness to get at the enemy. They leapt nimbly over rubble and bodies alike, and the line of defenders buckled, then collapsed, brutally ravaged by the minotaurs. Styrax left them to it and headed out the back of the Tollhouse, following the stream of Chetse troops still piling through the broken doorway.

He emerged into a sea of enemy soldiers, the bulk of whom were formed up behind a line of archers. The berserker Chetse charged straight for the bowmen, who managed to take out a few before breaking ranks and running for their lives.

A squad of soldiers charged Styrax, their pikes levelled, and he dodged to one side to avoid them, deflecting the last with his sword. They had no chance to reform as he pushed on past the long weapons and into the tight squad, cutting around him with superhuman speed. Only two men survived his blistering assault, but they backed into an advancing minotaur, who clubbed one and gored the other, tossing him high in the air before he fell, broken, upon the ground.

More Arothan soldiers ran for Styrax, who found himself parrying three, then four desperate men. One black-clad soldier armed with two axes came in on his left, turning into Styrax's sword as it came up to stop his axe, bringing his other axe around to catch Styrax's arm in the next movement – and the manoeuvre would have worked, had Kobra not pushed back the guarding axe and shorn through the shaft. The red-black blade carried on forward, chopping through arm and into his ribs.

Styrax saw the soldier's mouth fall open in wordless agony as he hung there for a moment, the fanged weapon snagged on his shoulder, his body torn open and his life's blood flooding out. Their eyes met, and the soldier's jaw worked for a moment, as though he was trying to give Styrax a message with his last breath.

No words came, and the soldier's eyes fluttered as death took him.

Styrax tugged his sword from the corpse.

Behind him the Chetse reserves surged on, widening the breach in the wall and reducing what was left of the defensive line to mangled bodies and shattered bone.

'No quarter!' Styrax roared as he threw himself forward with his Bloodsworn bodyguard, following in the wake of the crazed minotaurs. More troops joined them, both Chetse and Menin, breathlessly stampeding into the belly of the enemy.

'Raze the city to the ground – kill them all!' cried the Lord of the Menin, and the soldiers heard the savagery in their lord's voice and watched as Styrax threw himself into the fight with reckless abandon, memories of Kohrad's death filling his mind as he waded through the collapsed city defences. They hurtled further into the city, killing everyone, and setting light to the buildings before they'd even finished the slaughter.

Even before evening drew in, the sky was so dark with smoke that it seemed Tsatach himself, refusing to witness such horror, had turned his fiery eye away from the Land. The rain fell like tears, washing a river of blood from what had once been Aroth into the two lakes.