The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 9

The screams of the dead soared up on thermals of violence and spilled blood. Ringed by beacons lit by the silent watching Chetse, the Menin trampled, stabbed, spitted and crushed their former comrades. Many of the attackers slipped on gore-slicked corpses and stumbled over severed limbs; the tapestry of gasps and cries was punctured by the constant clatter and crump of steel. In the borrowed light of a subjugated city, the Lord of the Menin waded through the slaughter all around him, slashing and piercing with blinding speed.

They had driven the Guards of the Hidden Tower out of the sunken orchards, their sudden thrust on two fronts sparking a panicked retreat. The stampede of confused infantry in Salen's blue and yellow livery had run as intended, into the Plain of Pillars, creating chaos in the ranks of General Quistal's centaur tribes. Swamped by their so-called allies, the centaurs milled about in confusion, wheeling and kicking at those barging past, then swinging tridents and long-bladed spears to clear themselves an avenue of escape.

From the far side of the Plain, General Gaur led the Bloodsworn, the Menin's fanatical heavy cavalry, in a thundering charge. Clad in black-iron and sporting Lord Styrax's fanged skull emblem, the dark knights had appeared like vengeful shadows to crash into the flank of Salen's traitorous troops. The beast that led them raged, going berserk as he drove deeper and deeper through the enemy.

Styrax had paused to watch his old friend arrive; even in the poor light he could see the fur around Gaur's roaring maw was matted with blood. Few had ever seen the softly spoken general this way and the knights he led hesitated briefly, then threw themselves into the attack with the abandon of men following a divine force.

Assailed on three sides, with a high stone ridge blocking their flight on the fourth, wiser heads soon realised no quarter was going to be

offered. Amidst the confusion of battle, some were stirred to sense as training took over and soldiers started to form tight units working in unison. A man at the heart of the largest of these straightened up in the gloom and recognised Styrax's looming shape not twenty yards away. He pointed at their goal and. the soldiers stepped forward, shields locked together against the onslaught rushing over them, like waves breaking on a stone and flowing past.

Styrax felt rather than saw the movement towards him as a unit of some thirty soldiers tramped forward. Laughter bubbled up in his throat. They thought he was vulnerable, open to a desperate and heroic last charge.

The Lord of the Menin grinned to himself and stretched out his unarmoured hand towards them. The scarred flesh looked even more shockingly white than normal, the ethereal pallor highlighted by the small cut on it that was welling as deep red as his stained fingernails.

The group quickened its pace as helms dropped low behind tall shields, but the white-eye gave them no time to consider their folly. Greedily he drank in the energies swirling over the dusty plain as a sharp prickle burned at his fingertips. He felt Kobra tremble in his other hand, resonating with the rampant power. Casting the magic forward, Styrax saw the interlocked shields crumple and collapse as a dozen men fell, leaving the others staggering. Styrax did not press his advantage, for up above he heard a voice, then others: a savage chorus of ululating shrieks piercing the air as the Reavers' mages, cast their propelling spells with mechanical precision from behind the attacking main force.

The Plain of Pillars was named after the thousands of twenty-foot-high white sandstone columns erected hundreds of years before, fat columns the width of a man's outstretched arms, supporting the decorated stone lintels that divided the pillars into rows. Now the sharpened edges and deeply carved corners were proving an unex¬pected hazard for the plunging Reavers riding their bladed shields, though none appeared to care much. Styrax watched as one soldier, crouched low on his shield with an axe in each hand, almost gibbered with bloodthirsty delight until he clipped a pillar and was sent crash¬ing to the ground. His shield rebounded in an explosion of sparks and buried itself into a Cheme soldier's chest, but even before his comrade was dead, the Reaver had bounded to his feet and decapitated his nearest foe.

Another of the elite white-eyes plunged down through the knot of soldiers that had been intent on taking out Styrax. His bladed shield severed two heads as it fell to earth. Its owner dismounted expertly, bringing the shield up in defence as he struck out at the nearest enemy, shattering a leg with the mace he carried. As more Reavers landed, propelled over the ranks by a cadre of mages, Styrax stepped back and watched the slaughter. His presence on the battlefield was no longer necessary – the magic-crazed monsters would not notice his lack of participation. They were there to massacre the remaining traitors, to finish the bloody work once sensible men had lost the stomach for it.

Styrax remembered his own days as a member of that wild regi¬ment as though it had been just an opium dream. To be a Reaver was to be an animal, to revel in death and destruction, but he'd given it up when the searing flame of ambition at last overcame his baser instincts: watching the bloated figure of the man he would one day usurp in battle had broken the spell. The Lords of the Menin held greatness in their fists, yet Styrax's predecessor had been nothing more than a beast, a skilful berserker more suited to the Reavers. He had been simple-minded, blind to the value of anything beyond his baser lusts.

An echoing howl behind him intruded on Styrax's memories. He turned to see a burning figure staggering around blindly, about thirty yards away. Soldiers leapt to avoid the flames covering the man's entire body. Styrax's eyes narrowed. From the size of the figure he knew it had to be Kohrad. His son's strange armour was obviously growing in influence. Now it looked as if Kohrad had finally lost his control over it.

Styrax watched as Kohrad, impeded by one of the stone pillars, reached up to touch it. His fingers settled flat against the chill stone. Styrax heard his son snarl and saw the flames intensify, as if swelling in the fat streams of magic that flowed past him. The pillar blackened in a widening stain around Kohrad's hand and there was a loud crack¬ing sound as the pillar started to give under the enormous pressure. Styrax began to run towards his son, his white hand reaching for the Crystal Skull at his chest. He felt the surge of magic flooding through the pillars towards them: the time had come. He had to act now, or run the risk that his son would never recover his senses, for the magic Kohrad was randomly drawing would simply burn away his mind.

This was the opportunity they had been waiting for. Styrax broke into a run. The Skull came away from his armour easily and he held it at his waist as he planned his attack. The burning figure didn't seem to notice him. 'Kohrad!' Styrax roared.

His son looked up, his sword twitching, as Styrax flung the Skull named Destruction up in the air. His sword immediately forgotten, Kohrad watched the shining artefact arc up towards him, blazing in the firelight. As it neared, the light grew more intense, feeding from Kohrad's flames and drawing in power. Kohrad reached out with sup¬plicant arms to catch the Skull he had once plucked from the Duke of Raland's plump hands, and as it fell into his embrace, he hugged it tight, pulling it to his chest so it could melt into the steel and become part of the torrent rushing through him.

He was still holding it fast when Styrax reached him. Kohrad didn't even look up as his father struck him with the pommel of his sword. The blow connected and Kohrad's head snapped back from the blow, his body rocking with the impact. For an instant the fire blazed even brighter, then the flames winked out and Kohrad crashed to the floor.

Styrax sheathed his sword. A company of Cheme troops had dropped back from the fighting and encircled their lord, leaving the rest to deal with the few remaining pockets of resistance.

'Major,' he called to the leader of his bodyguard, 'fetch General Gaur and a litter for my son.'

The major motioned and one of his men sprinted off towards the Bloodsworn knights. Two more soldiers started gathering spears and stripping dead bodies to gather material to make a stretcher. The others fanned out and continued to keep watch.

Styrax pulled off his helm and knelt at Kohrad's side, placing a hand on the Skull that was now fused with the armour. It had already adopted the steel's blood-red colour. Kohrad was still alive. Styrax sighed in relief: he had only educated guesses where the Crystal Skulls were concerned, but this time at least, he appeared to have been right. He had needed his son to be at the point of burn-out, for only then could a combination of magic and brute force put him into this deep unconsciousness. And that was necessary for the team of surgeons and mages who were ready and waiting to remove the corrupting armour from his son's body. The Skulls were all designed to counteract the power of the Gods, and they provided a cushion of sorts against mortal blows – the Skulls didn't make men invulnerable, they just allowed a last roll of the dice against Death, the Chief of the Gods.

As Styrax crouched there, the shallow dent in Kohrad's helm twitched and distended before creeping back into shape. He watched it carefully. Kohrad had returned from a hunting trip with the armour, and Styrax had been unable to discover anything about it since then. Watching it repair the dent so quickly told Styrax it was ancient, Elven-made, but he could recall no text mentioning anything like this armour. He gave a grunt of curiosity as he gently eased the helm off Kohrad's head. His son's eyes were closed, and black hair dank with sweat stuck to his forehead. His lip was cut and a reddening graze ran over his cheek to a minor cut. There was no trace of a bruise on his temple yet, which was good – there was always the chance of bursting a vessel with a blow that hard, and few surgeons could do anything about blood leaking into the skull.

A clatter of hooves announced General Guar's arrival. The general jumped from his horse untidily, he had never been a natural horse¬man, not with the legs and hooves of a goat – but right now Gaur didn't care how awkward he looked, not with the young man he loved like a son lying like a corpse.

'He lives?' he growled, almost too scared to hear the reply.

'Yes.'

The two shared a moment of relief. Gaur's face bore a rare, brief smile.

'I think I hit him harder than I needed, but he's safe, I think. You have the team ready?'

'Close enough. The mages are happy with the laboratory we found in the Chetarate Stonedun and your surgeon is at the palace.'

'Good. Send a messenger. He should meet us at the stonedun.'

Gaur nodded, but before he could reply a voice hailed Styrax. They turned to see a party of horsemen trotting over, the white-eye mage Larim at the fore. Clearly none of them had taken part in the battle, for their robes were pristine, the discordant colours of Larat almost glowing. The major swore and snapped out an order. Soldiers immedi¬ately spread out to flank Larat's newest Chosen.

'Hold, he's no part of this,' Gaur bellowed, for his men were ready to kill anyone in Larat's colours.

The troops froze, obedient to Gaur's every word, and the remaining few followers of Larat screamed their last in the background while Larim trotted on, apparently unconcerned.

'Say what you like about Larat's Chosen,' Styrax muttered almost beneath his breath, 'none of them hold a grudge. They don't have the capacity to care, not even for colleagues of twenty years.'

With the mage were two guards whose uniforms echoed those Styrax had been slaughtering, looking completely terrified as they stared around at the butchered regiments. They were hauling along a pair of bruised figures, mages who had been beaten to a pulp, though Styrax recognised the pair, part of Salen's coterie, were not looking as dead as he'd ordered.

'Where are the others?' he called.

'Dead already,' said Larim in a jocular voice. Styrax frowned for a moment. The Chosen of Larat was looking far too cheerful around such slaughter, even for a callous bastard who cared only about his own skin. Then Styrax remembered Salen was dead just this hour past – Larim would still be intoxicated by the renewed blessing of the God of Magic. Considering his God's utter disregard of murder, and his amusement at Salen's death – Styrax would not forget that chuckle echoing through the streets of Thotel in a hurry – of course Larim would find the sight of his newly inherited army being slaughtered high entertainment.

'Do you see them honouring us?' Larim gestured around at the torches of the Chetse surrounding them. Atop the black bulk of the Lion Guard's barracks were more than a hundred such torches, and at least a handful could be seen in every other direction. 'A ring of fire, perhaps they are welcoming us by echoing our homeland?'

'Perhaps.' Styrax was in no mood to engage in foolish banter. Larim had disobeyed his orders by coming here, and Kohrad needed atten¬tion as soon as possible. Styrax reminded himself to be polite for the moment; he didn't need the distraction of another fight. 'My Lord, I assume you have a good reason to be here?'

'My lord,' repeated Larim, pleased with the sound of his new hon¬orific. The Hidden Tower was set in the remote north of the Ring of Fire, so Larim, even though Salen's Krann, had enjoyed neither lands nor actual rank before Salen's death. 'My reasons are good, yes. As you ordered, I was dealing with Salen's coterie. Then something curious happened that you need to take note of.'

Styrax gave an exasperated hiss. Behind Larim he could see the two Cheme soldiers returning with a rough drag-litter. Ignoring the exchange between the white-eyes, they gave perfunctory bows and hurried over to Kohrad. Styrax turned to Gaur and leaned close, so as to not be overheard. 'Go ahead with Kohrad – take the regiment as escort. If this turns out to be important and I don't catch you up, don't wait. I want to know how this armour is exerting its influence over him. If we don't break the link now, either he will die, or he will wake to the armour past any chance of control, and we will never get this chance again. I do not intend for either to happen.'

The general grunted in assent and together they lifted Kohrad onto the cradle while the soldiers brought over a horse to attach it to. Leather straps went around his chest and waist to hold Kohrad onto the cradle but they had to bend his knees to ensure his feet didn't drag.

His son looked suddenly frail, ashen in the weak light. Styrax re¬membered Kohrad as a child, an energetic sprawl of whirling limbs, storming through Crafanc's rooms with his lionhounds. His mother, Selar, was also a white-eye – they could breed only with their own kind – yet she had proved a remarkably attentive parent. It had broken Selar's heart when her cherished son effectively chose his father over her; after years of his mother's unconditional love, it was to Styrax that Kohrad had turned.

Through his childhood Kohrad had been in perpetual motion, rarely able to remain stationary. Even as an adult he would pace and gesture, brimming with childish energy and wicked humour. And now he lay there with slack lips and vacant eyes: to see Kohrad like this chilled Styrax's heart, more than any wound he'd received.

Reluctantly he lifted the drag-cradle and hooked it up to the wait¬ing horse's saddle. Gaur gave him a nod and led the horse away, clearly intending to walk beside Kohrad all the way. Styrax took one last look and left his friend to take charge, a rare flicker of fear in his heart as he returned his attention to Larim. Whatever concerns he had, he couldn't show the ambitions young white-eye a trace of weakness. Larim might begin to think he would succeed where Salen failed.

'The young lord is badly hurt?'

'He will recover,' Styrax growled in reply, glaring at Larim until the younger man shifted his gaze from Kohrad's prone form. 'You had something important so show me?'

'Ah, so I did.' Larim coughed and gestured to his two guards, who dragged the prisoners from their saddles. Each had his hands bound with white cord with some sort of enchantment woven into the thin rope. Styrax could just make out the glittering silver thread that held the magic. Larim took one by the arm and dragged him over to where Styrax was standing.

'I was following your orders exactly – quick simple deaths, with no experimentation or creativity. A waste of perfect subjects, in my opinion, but I understood your reasoning. Consequently, I was sur¬prised to observe the following.'

He whipped a thin dagger from his belt and slammed it into the man's chest. The man gave a high-pitched shriek and convulsed in pain. Larim frowned at the sound and jolted the man, as though to admonish him. The man gasped, then went limp, passed out from the pain and died quickly.

'Normal thus far?' commented Larim, as though conducting an ex¬periment in front of a flock of acolytes. Styrax nodded, managing to contain his curiosity. The Chosen of Larat was doing nothing to the man. Styrax could sense no force, nor any charm that would prevent death, or even make that death notable. The only thing he suspected of Larat's Chosen was that he was enjoying the chance to provide Styrax with some instruction, and that wasn't exactly a surprise.

'But observe,' Larim continued, pulling the dagger back out of his victim. A gout of blood sprayed from the corpse over the base of the pillar Kohrad had been attacking. With a fastidious sniff, Larim released the body and stepped back. The dead mage swayed and his knees buckled, limbs and neck limp all falling limp, but somehow he remained upright.

'You're right,' said Styrax, 'that is curious.' He tasted the air. The Plain of Pillars was thick with the stench of death, but suddenly the odour had risen, heavy in his throat. Styrax recognised the sensation: this was necromancy, without doubt, but the source eluded him. He felt the rare sensation of being intrigued.

'Salen put some form of necromantic charm on his coterie? But no, I assume if that were the case you'd look a little less immaculate.'

'You would be correct in that assumption, my Lord.' Larim stepped back half a pace to give the corpse a little more room. His expression was one of calculating interest, rather than concern. Styrax again reached his senses out, to be certain this was no elaborate trap. He could feel nothing of the power that would be required normally, but there was something unusual. A presence of some kind? He didn't know of any daemon that could enter a corpse without some form of assistance.

'Larim?' rasped the dead mage. There was an echo to the voice, as well as the bubbling of air though a ruined windpipe.

'I'm here,' was the reply, laced with a vague amusement.

'I cannot see you.'

'That's because your head's hanging down at the ground.'

'You wish to gauge my strength? So be it, you are but a child after all.'

There was no emotion in the voice. Styrax couldn't tell whether the being was angry or amused at the game Larim was playing. Controlling the muscles was difficult for a daemon, and clearly the Chosen of Larat had broken the corpse's neck to find out how powerful a being they were dealing with.

With jerking movements the dead mage's head was forced to an upright angle, tongue lolling and eyes dead. 'You have found Lord Styrax as I asked. Good.'

'Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?' Styrax en¬quired.

Larim turned to face Styrax. 'I believe this is your friend, not mine.'

Styrax felt a chill on his skin. Was he being accused of something? Had Larim proof that Styrax had made a pact with a daemon? If so, why confront him here, surrounded by Styrax's troops?

He looked at the dead mage. 'Well, corpse, are you a friend of mine?'

'A friend? No. A loyal subject of course.'

'Loyal subject?' Styrax narrowed his eyes, thinking frantically, then cried, 'Amavoq's rage; Isherin Purn? I'd assumed you were dead – we've heard nothing from you in two years.'

'I am honoured you remember me.' The voice lacked any emotion, but Styrax could imagine it now, the mocking, wheedling lilt, Purn's thin lips over-forming each syllable in almost obscene pedantry. The necromancer was an unpleasant, rat-like figure, alternating wildly between ridiculous scheming and depraved experiments.

'You did your job well. I expected you to return and claim your reward. Lord Bahl would never have left himself vulnerable without your influence. I had hoped to hear just how you accomplished it.'

An artist cannot reveal too many secrets. All I will say is that it required a creative pen as much as spellcasting.' The corpse paused. 'I did not return because I have found myself many distractions in this part of the Land. There is so much fun to be had here.'

'And yet you seek me out?'

'Ever willing to be of service to my Lord.'

Styrax snorted. 'When you were in my grip, perhaps. You certainly had enough sense not to challenge me. Now that you are beyond my influence, I'm not so sure.' He cocked his head towards Larim. 'What was it Verliq said? "I hold no allegiance but to my art"?'

The white-eye's lip twitched in irritation. 'I would not know, my Lord. You have not let us read any of his works.'

Styrax gave him a bright little smile. 'Ah, no, of course not. A shame, you would find them most instructive. Well, Purn? I know necromancers care little for their rulers, so tell me why you have gone to all this trouble.'

'I am in Scree. It is a backward little city, typical of the Western states, caught between one powerful neighbour and another and spending all their time looking outwards for the next threat.'

'So they don't worry much about people disappearing off the street from time to time. I'm sure it is paradise for you. I do already have agents however; agents who provide better information that that. Either tell me something new, or 1 will dismiss you in a manner you will find most uncomfortable. My son is injured so I have little time for the babbling of deranged maniacs.'

'If your son is injured, then you had better be more courteous to the walkers in the dark,' the corpse retorted, its jaw snapping shut, an indication of Isherin Purn's anger.

'Why? What do you know about it?' Styrax stepped forward and grabbed the corpse by its slack neck. Without any apparent effort he lifted it up with one hand and brought the dead lolling eyes level with his own. 'Whatever allegiance you profess to hold, never forget my power. There is nowhere you could hide from me. There is no protec¬tor you could find to keep you safe if you made yourself my enemy. Now explain what you meant.'

Returning the corpse to the ground, he stepped back and watched it jerk and spasm as Purn fought to regain control over its muscles. That close, Styrax could smell the emptied bowels, adding to the stink of corrupt magic surrounding the cadaver. Purn had grown in power since being allowed to leave Salen's tutelage at the Hidden Tower and seek out Cordein Malich. Styrax guessed that the necromancer would be unable to repeat this trick with anyone but members of the coterie he had served in, yet even so, it was impressive. And it was an illustrative point of theory – he would have to send someone to read Larim's notes when he had time to investigate it further.

'I understand,' the corpse rasped eventually. 'I am no threat to your son, but he walks with one foot in the dark.'

'One foot in the dark? He is not as close to death as that.'

'Not close to death, but walking in the dark nonetheless. He is open to the creatures of the other place. They can feel the fire raging through him. I do not know the being that fuels his fire, but it is not one that would willingly share its possessions. I do not dare investigate further else I be scorched by its vengeance.'

'Kohrad is no toy to be shared,' Styrax snarled. 'Nor is he a posses¬sion of either God or daemon. If one seeks to claim him, it will have to fight my armies for him.'

'It already has staked its claim.'

Styrax hesitated. 'The armour? That is what gives it power over him?'

'Ah, a suit of armour? If that is true, then you are dealing with an old one, the most ancient and cunning. Filled with malice they are – and hard to trick out of their prize. Take care how you proceed.'

Styrax hesitated. He knew which inhabitant of the dark would want a hold over him: the daemon-prince he had made a bargain with many years ago. It feared his strength and scrabbled for purchase. So be it; he had always known a reckoning had to come one day. Strange that it comes this way though, 1 wouldn't have expected a daemon to choose such an oblique path.

'Was that what you came to tell me? A warning from a loyal servant?'

'No.' The corpse gave a wheeze, a dribble of cloying blood emerg¬ing from the corner of its mouth. Styrax suspected Purn, back in his festering laboratory in Scree, was laughing at the notion. 'To tell you there is a new air in Scree. Figures of power walk the streets, unknown songs drift on the air. It is nothing I have ever felt before, but it is more akin to the currents surging through the Dark Place than the politics of a city. Something calls to me in the night, something of incalculable power.'

'You're asking for help?' Styrax's puzzlement was plain in his voice. He glanced at Larim, but the young white-eye looked just as confused. A necromancer as powerful as Purn was unlikely to ask for assistance, no matter what the task. Sharing, spoils or troubles, was not often part of the mindset.

'Scree becomes the focus of something quite remarkable, I believe. I do not know what dangers lie here, but they shift and feed off each other. Scree sees the convergence of horrors. I fear this home will soon be no home, not even for a man of culture such as I.'

Styrax knew what Purn meant, but when he glanced at Larim, he didn't appear to understand; his contact with necromancers during his fifteen-year apprenticeship would have been limited. Necromancers disliked states descending into chaos. There were too many factions involved, too many mobs roaming the streets and disrupting their work. They liked their shadows still and peaceful, rather than flicker¬ing in the flames of funeral pyres.

'You lack the power to compete for whatever it is that calls to you in the night?'

'If this convergence draws more people to Scree that will certainly be true, but in fact I suspect the artefact would draw me into the games of lords and Gods, and in these troubled times that would not prove healthy. Instead, I offer to help you secure it.'

'You're offering me this artefact? In exchange for what? A manor back home with your pick of the gaols? A guarantee that your activi¬ties will be unrestrained?'

'No. The pickings will be richer this side of the waste. Every denizen of the dark knows that a storm has scattered the strands of the future far and wide. Fate lies in her chamber and weeps for what she has lost. I do not wish to be absent from such delicious chaos. The freedom you offered me is my price – as well as men to assist me here – but in Thotel, where I am not answerable to anyone but you. That – and one of the Chetse's Bloodroses for my personal use.'

Styrax frowned. A necromancer offering to hand over something of such power? It hardly seemed creditable, yet Purn knew his lord well enough not to expect some foolish mistake that could put Styrax in danger, or honour an agreement where he'd been lied to. 'If this artefact is as great as you claim, I agree. I will send you some men to help and they will accompany you back here.'

The corpse shuddered, slumping to its knees before Purn regained his control. 'I cannot hold this much longer. Who will you send? They must leave word for me at a tavern, the Lost Spur.'

Styrax's thoughts began to race. Killers would be easy enough to find, but who of his staff could he send to lead them? All those men whose names came readily to his lips were men of importance, and he had few friends he could spare for such a thing. Then one appeared unbidden in his mind. Styrax pictured the terror it would cause even as he spoke, and the picture it made caused him to smile inwardly.

'Mikiss. A messenger called Koden Mikiss will lead them.'

Not waiting to hear any more, Isherin Purn broke the link and the mage's corpse collapsed in a heap of stained, stinking robes. Styrax didn't move for a moment, thinking over this remarkable conversa¬tion. Of what importance was Scree? What sort of convergence could be happening there? Then Kohrad's still form returned to his memory. There were more important things to deal with this night. His skills would be required if they were going to break whatever hold the daemon had over his son. Once that was done, there was revenge to be planned.

'Major,' Styrax growled. The tall soldier hurried over, his amber eyes glinting in the firelight. 'Find our friend the messenger and have him waiting for when I finish with Kohrad. Do you have a few men you can trust for a trip such as this?'

'If it's as important as he said,' the soldier replied with a nod towards the corpse, 'I'll go myself, and take the twins with me. Any more than that will make it hard to travel quick and quiet.'

Styrax gave a nod of approval. 'Good. I don't want to send an army all the way up there, not yet. Find out what Purn is talking about and if you think it worthwhile, send word with what assistance you'll need to secure it. Get yourself ready, then bring the messenger to me. But first, find me a horse.'