The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 23

The light of dawn was no more than an icy gleam beneath the reced¬ing clouds when four groups of men appeared at the head of the huge ancient steps leading down to Thotel's Temple Plain. The ground was still soaked after the night's deluge and all around was the rush and clatter of falling water, pouring down from rocky clefts in the cliff, feeding the lake at its southern end where most of the city's water came from.

The two oldest men embraced and shared a questioning look, but the remainder were careful not to catch each other's attention as they assembled at the top of the massive stairway and waited as the western horizon brightened and the clouds parted before the light.

General Dev breathed in the damp scent of the plain. He remem¬bered the last time he'd gone there, the night Lord Chalat had aban¬doned them – or been murdered, he still wasn't entirely sure. Dev had had his skull cracked that night, leaving him bedridden and unable to oppose Lord Charr's insanity which had ensured the Menin victory over them. Whether he would have been able to stop Charr was open for debate, but as Commander of the Ten Thousand, he would have been the only one in a position to try. The enormous guilt he felt was only compounded by his current collaboration with the Menin and, until he found a way out of this impossible position, it would continue to gnaw at his insides.

The fading gloom unveiled an ochre landscape streaked with long trails of rusty red clay and sandy seams. The cliffs surrounding the plain were dotted with straggly plants that clung to tiny ledges, and bats and flying lizards filled the air, returning to the caves in which they roosted. The heart of the plain was dominated by the gigantic pyramidal shape of the Temple of the Sun, where their patron God Tsatach heard the prayers of thousands around the Eternal Flame. Its copper peak was as bright and gleaming as the day the temple had been raised.

A sound came from their right. The general turned to see a man standing before the Temple of Nartis, one of three temples not stand¬ing on the plain itself. Dev, peering through the pillars, could see it was empty.

Odd, he thought, shouldn't the priests of Nartis be performing the final ritual of the night?

The man walked towards them and offered a respectful bow that was not returned. General Dev glanced at his companions. Each group consisted of a tachrenn, commander of a thousand axemen, and a few of their command staff – like General Dev, they had been instructed to bring only their closest advisors, and no guards. No doubt they feared they were to be slaughtered before the city awakened, but General Dev suspected something else. Killing them quietly, even in guarded stoneduns, was easy enough to arrange. They wouldn't have been invited to the Temple Plain if Lord Styrax wanted them all dead. To bring together the commanders of the legions that comprised the Ten Thousand – or at least, those who remained after the Menin's comprehensive victory – with neither ceremony nor great secrecy: that spoke of respect, rather than a knife in the back.

The man, a Menin servant, he assumed, wore a nondescript grey robe tied at the waist, and loose grey trousers. He beamed at the eight groups of men. 'Good morning, General Dev, and Tachrenn of the Ten Thousand; my Lord requests your presence for a small Menin tradition down on the Temple Plain.'

'Do we look like we care about Menin traditions?' spat Tachrenn Lecha, a tall Chetse with his arm still in a sling from a spear-wound he'd received in the battle.

'Lecha,' General Dev rumbled, unwilling to let the younger tachrenn stir trouble already, 'it's a little early for incivility.'

'Incivility? General, you do recall that they have occupied our capi¬tal city – or has your new creature-friend made you forget that?' said Lecha, appalled at what he viewed as his commander's collaboration. Tachrenn Lecha had organised much of the city's resistance; General Gaur had said as much in his last meeting with Dev, and he had made it clear they were losing patience with the man. Dev was far from happy with the situation himself; he was getting pressure from both sides, and life grew more complicated with every day. Very few Chetse approved of his current understanding with Lord Styrax and he had yet to decide himself whether he'd done the right thing.

'I remember,' Dev said, ignoring the tachrenn's disrespectful tone, 'and I also remember that our legions lack the weapons to stop Lord Styrax slaughtering any part of the population he pleases – and I also remember that most conquering armies would have executed us all after our city fell. I remember hearing only yesterday that a Chetse army marching to our aid from Cholos was crushed. So until the time has come when we are in a position to throw off our oppressors, please try not to antagonise the white-eye currently ruling us.'

Not waiting for a response, the ageing Chetse started off down the massive stair. He could feel the resentment behind him, but he knew there was nothing to do other than ignore it. Beside him hovered his nephew, a young infantryman acting as his aide since he was still none too steady on his feet after the recent injury. As he neared the Temple of the Sun and once again saw a white-eye waiting for him, General Dev felt his head start to throb again. His vision swam for a moment, causing him to hesitate enough for his nephew to notice and take his arm.

'Gods,' Dev muttered, loud enough only for his nephew to hear, 'I was too old for this even before I got my skull cracked.'

After more than a hundred steps, set in a zigzag of three straight sections, he found himself on the plain, approaching the looming bulk of the Temple of the Sun, which was lit faintly from within by the eternal flame. The white shaft of light that ran from altar to apex shone only inside the temple's boundary line. The pale stone of the temple glowed, and grew even larger in the dim of dawning morn.

Once they reached the temple, Dev realised that none of the figures waiting for them beside the small fire was in fact Lord Styrax, though the lord's son, Kohrad, was there, slumped in a campaign chair and wrapped in what looked like white ceremonial robes. He looked drawn and sickly still, and the skin of his face and hands was blistered and scarred.

Curious: removing that burning armour from his body weakened the boy more than anyone could have expected, Dev thought. The man hovering at Kohrad's elbow looked like a doctor – he didn't envy the man if his charge died.

Predictably, General Gaur was amongst those awaiting them. The bestial warrior nodded to the group, but had the good sense not to greet Dev personally. The apparent leader was Duke Vrill. He was the exception to the white-eye rule, for not only was he smaller than most of his kind, he was little more than half-decent as a warrior. Even stranger, he made up for that in other ways, for he was renowned as a cunning and patient strategist.

Dev guessed the duke must have recently returned to the city. He had been overseeing the ongoing campaign against the last two Chetse cities defying the Menin. Tachrenn Lecha insisted the con¬tinuing resistance was a sign that they could still drive the Menin out of Thotel, but Dev knew he was not alone in believing the only reason Cholos and Lenei remained free was because neither city was important enough for Lord Styrax to bother with yet.

'Honoured guests,' Duke Vrill declared with a broad grin, his arms spread theatrically, 'it is a Menin tradition to take tea at the breaking of dawn, in a place of quiet reflection. I do hope you will join us in saluting the day's first light.'

One of the assorted soldiers gave a snort of amusement. Lecha voiced the collective thought. 'What tradition is this/' he asked. 'Just to drink tea as dawn breaks?' He didn't bother to hide the contempt in his voice, but Duke Vrill ignored it, as few white-eyes would have.

The Menin duke stepped forward, his eyes on the tachrenn, and said softly, 'Just to drink tea, and to consider the beauty of the Land as it is revealed.'

'No particular ceremony with the tea, then?'

'None; I've always thought that ritual tends to get in the way of enjoyment – but it is tea brought from our home in the Ring of Fire. You could consider it symbolic tea, if you like.' Somehow, the duke managed to keep any mocking tone from his voice.

1)ev stepped in before Lecha refused the tea on symbolic grounds

this was obviously a face-saving pretext so both sides could come together in relative peace. He could smell business needing to be discussed.

'I would be glad for tea,' he said loudly, 'and like all old men, I have learned that one should take any opportunity to appreciate the beauty of our Land.'

'One must always take the time to pay attention to what's around,' boomed a deep voice from the temple, and they turned to see Kastan Styrax step out from the lee ol a pillar. The massive white-eye lord was swathed in a long grey cloak, but Dev's schooled eye detected the full suit of armour underneath the enveloping material.

'Strange, none of the others are dressed for battle,' Dev muttered to himself, looking around discreetly. The two soldiers tending the fire had sheathed swords on their hips, of course, as did Kohrad Styrax and Duke Vrill, but no one else was armoured.

What is playing out here? Dev wondered. Styrax s helm is lying on the temple floor, and he surely knows no crowd of old soldiers is going to miss his gear – he wants to make it very clear that he's the only one ready for battle, but why? 1 really am too old for this.

Once the two soldiers had served tall cups of pale green tea to each man they retired to a respectful distance.

Dev realised Lord Styrax was watching him fixedly and with a curt nod, he ordered his aides to do likewise. One by one, the tachrenns copied him. Although some looked less than happy, it would have been a gross insult not to follow their commander's lead. Even Tachrenn Lecha wouldn't defy his general quite so openly.

'Gentlemen,' Kastan Styrax said, once the staff were out of earshot, 'now we are no longer lords and commanders, merely old soldiers sharing tea and grumbling about the state of the Land, as old soldiers are supposed to.'

Old men grumbling about the Land? What do you have to grumble about, O lord of all you survey? Dev wondered, then: Gods! Are you asking a favour of us?

Lord Styrax walked through the group to face the War God's temple, second on the plain only to Tsatach's own Temple of the Sun. A stylised image of Karkarn in his berserker aspect, with long wild hair and savage canines, had been carved above the entrance. When the Menin lord turned back to the men, there was a satisfied expres¬sion on his face.

'Tachrenn Echat,' he said suddenly, 'I hear condolences are in order.'

The tachrenn looked alarmed for a moment at having been singled out. Echat's darker skin and delicate features marked him as from the easternmost part of the Chetse territory, one of the desert clans who lived on the fringes of the Waste. It was a harsh and unforgiving place that bred the finest Chetse warriors; many of the Ten Thousand were recruited from those wild parts. Echat shook his head, as if to clear it, then said, 'The raids, you mean?'

'Certainly,' Lord Styrax said. 'I hear your own clan took heavy losses – though not without giving a good account of themselves.'

Echat looked stunned for a moment, as much at who was offering him condolences as the fact that the lord even knew of the action. 'I thank you for those words,' he stammered a little, 'but every child of the desert is well used to the danger. It is just another aspect of life for us.'

'No doubt – but I hear there is more activity in that part of the Waste this year. A number of my own troops have also been lost.'

Just what are you saying? Dev wondered as he watched the exchange closely. Echat has played it down, but they've been hurt badly, and not just by the Siblis. There is word of Elven raiding parties too.

'These things are rarely predicable,' Dev said out loud, ignoring the grateful look on Tachrenn Echat's face. When Lord Styrax turned to face him, Dev was filled with the certainty that this was no idle chatter. 'The nature of the Waste has always been chaotic,' he added.

'True enough, but news of the recent upheaval can only embolden raiders,' Lord Styrax said. 'Jackals are quick to exploit any weaknesses they see.'

General Dev spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. 'There is little we can do to aid them; the desert clans will have to fend for themselves for the moment.'

Lord Styrax sipped his tea with a thoughtful expression that didn't fool Dev for a moment. The white-eye looked past the men as the first rays of dawn crept over the cliffs surrounding the Temple Plain.

The cynic in General Dev saw Lord Styrax had positioned himself carefully. A very old shrine to the sun's first light, a minor Aspect of Tsatach called Kehla, stood on the cliffs directly west from Tsatach's main temple. It consisted mainly of an archway, through which the rising sun now appeared, bathing the Menin lord in golden rays while the surrounding ground remained in shadow.

Styrax raised his cup to the sunrise and downed the liquid. The Chetse soldiers all sank to one knee as their patron God appeared. They bowed their heads and, lips moving in unison, said the dawn prayer together.

'I'm sure most of you are wondering exactly what I have to grumble about,' Styrax began suddenly.

Dev flinched at the unexpected sound. He looked quickly at the tachrenns to see if anyone had noticed bis position was tenuous enough without them seeing him jumping at shadows – but their attention was fixed on the white-eye.

'Well, to answer that,' Styrax continued after a moment, 'the break¬ing of the curfew vexes me.'

There was a pause.

'The curfew?' Dev asked eventually, feeling a little confused. Since Lord Salen's death and the massacre of his troops, the streets of Thotel had been relatively quiet. Other than a few hundred youths throwing stones at patrols, there had been no trouble at all. 'A handful of children throwing stones shouldn't be causing you many problems.'

'It doesn't cause me problems,' Styrax said, closing on Dev, 'but it does sadden me. My men are forced to retaliate against children and that breeds hatred – a hatred that could last generations.' The big white-eye swung around to glare at the Chetse soldiers. 'Old men send out children to be killed on the streets so the hatred stays alive,' he growled. 'Unrest is to be expected, but to fuel it with the blood of innocents: that is shameful.'

'My Lord, I am sure it is not being organised,' Dev said after a tense pause.

'As am I,' Styrax replied in a level tone, 'but neither is it being dissuaded by the men they look up to, men like you, soldiers, and the men of the priesthood. I would not be surprised if there are some who are actively encouraging it. That I call cowardice, and it shames you, leaders of cowards.'

Is he offering to help stop the raids in the east in return for order to be restored in the city? Before Dev could think of how best to reply, the ground shuddered – once, then again, and again, like the heavy footfalls of an approaching giant. Dev looked around in alarm. The sound was coming from the Temple of the Sun itself, but all he could see was the Menin lord's helm and the great altar with the eternal flame whispering insistently above it. For an instant, Dev thought he saw a shadow moving across the furthest pillar, as though something massive had stepped between it and the eternal flame.

'What in the name of Tsatach's balls was that?' Tachrenn Lecha breathed, his hand feeling in vain for an axe that was not strapped to his back.

'That,' said Lord Styrax, staring fixedly at the temple, 'is the demand for a price to be paid.'

'My Lord?' asked Duke Vrill, a slightly anxious look on his face. Clearly he was as much in the dark as any of them.

'A little personal business,' rumbled Lord Styrax. 'Gentlemen, I suggest you stay very still, no matter what happens. You might have heard the rumour that a creature of the Dark Place thought itself clever enough to enslave my son's soul through a suit of magical armour.' As he spoke, he unfastened the cloak he'd been wearing and let it fall to the floor, revealing the armour he'd stripped from the vampire lord Koezh Vukotic after beating him in single combat. Hanging down his back was the great twin-fanged broadsword he'd won from his predecessor.

This is no coincidence, Dev thought. You wouldn't be wearing a full suit of armour if you hadn't expected this. You've summoned it!

'General Dev, if I remember my scripture correctly, Tsatach is a God with exceedingly strict views on honour and oath-breaking; am I correct?'

'You are – but surely your son has made no oath to this daemon?' the general answered. 'I thought daemons could only incarnate if they were given a means to do so.' Oh Gods, he thought to himself, is a daemon about to incarnate and take its prize? You think that Tsatach will allow this to happen inside his own temple because of bonds of honour?

'I believe that is correct,' Styrax said as he gestured towards his sickly-looking son, 'and so I have given it that means. To free my son from his enslavement 1 had to give the daemon something in return. I gave it a pledge of service.'

A gasp ran around the assembled Chetse. None of them were mages, and despite their positions they had very little to do with the supernatural side of the Land, but any sane man knew the price of such a pledge.

'You are making pacts with daemons?' Dev spluttered.

Lord Styrax gave a growl as he tore Kobra from its bindings. 'I will not stand by and let a daemon play its games unhindered, whether it is a prince among its kind or not. Now my son is free and I have been able to choose what comes next.'

'What have you chosen?' Dev murmured, hardly able to believe what he was hearing.

'What do you think?' the white-eye laughed, sparks flashing in his eyes. 'The creature can pluck my soul from my cold, dead body, but it won't get it without a fight.'

Flexing his massive shoulders under that unnatural black armour, detailed with beaded whorls, he loomed large and terrifying in the early morning light. The cruel fanged tip of his sword glowed with savage power and the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass caught the weak dawn rays to momentarily dazzle General Dev.

The old man took an involuntary pace back, shrinking away from the palpable sense of furious strength. In the distance, he felt a shud¬der through the rock beneath his feet, closer this time. The daemon was near.

The white-eye turned and stalked into the temple, heading for the helm he'd left there. The Chetse soldiers exchanged glances, unsure what to do. Dev gathered his senses and looked to the Menin for answers, but Duke Vrill and General Gaur showed no emotion. Either they knew exactly what was going on, or they had the presence of mind not to show their own confusion.

More worryingly, Kohrad Styrax suddenly looked animated. There was a new gleam in his eye, an alertness to his poise, as if he were anticipating what was about to come.

Inside the temple, Lord Styrax had donned his helm and was going through a complex weapon drill as though this were nothing more than morning exercises. Again Dev felt a tremble run through the ground, but this time it was a constant shudder, like the footfalls of an army of souls. Dark shapes began to flit around the inside, but Lord Styrax paid no attention to the amorphous forms, intent instead on the slow, smooth movements of his drills.

Behind him, Dev felt a sudden wind whip up from the ground, drag¬ging trails of dust around his heels and swirling in tight spirals towards the massive pillars of stone that supported the temple's apex, growing in intensity until it shrieked across the carved stone, the sound so piercing that the watching men all flinched and clamped their hands over their ears. Inside the temple, the air darkened.

'What's happening?' whispered one of the tachrenns.

'The Dark Place,' croaked Kohrad gleefully, 'the boundary between their land and ours thins as the daemon tries to cross over. Listen hard; those are the voices of the damned!' '

Dev listened. As the shrieking wind grew it was all too easy to imagine a chorus of wailing voices ringing out as the air inside the temple shuddered and wrenched, as if under some invisible assault. Only the dark knight, calmly moving through his drills, was unaffected,

standing impervious to the fraying boundaries of the Land, apparently untouched by the storm swirling all around them. Something skit¬tered away from the stone at his feet and was picked up by the wind and dashed against the underside of one of the walkways that skirted the temple.

Dev followed the sound and went white as he realised shadowy figures had assembled there, drifting in and out of existence as the howling ebbed and flowed. He narrowed his eyes, but he couldn't fix his attention: the figures faded when he looked directly at them, it was only in his peripheral vision that he could make out that they were all staring intently down at the temple floor. A finger of dread crept down his spine and he lowered his eyes.

There, standing just before the altar and towering over even the massive Menin white-eye, was the daemon.

Kastan Styrax didn't react as the daemon flickered into existence, though, distantly, he heard both the Chetse soldiers' alarm, and his son's hoarse cry of anticipation. Kohrad was still weak after the ex¬hausting rituals, spells and surgery that had removed the armour from his body, but the young white-eye had every intention of witnessing his father's vengeance.

He stepped forward, sizing up his enemy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd faced someone larger than he, for the Menin were the tallest of the Seven Tribes. The daemon was twelve feet tall, far bigger than he, and its head was half-obscured by a black cowl which cast a shadow over a face covered in a criss-cross pattern of dark, deep scars. The daemon turned its head towards Kohrad, and the boy started spouting a stream of invective.

Styrax smiled; Kohrad must have complete confidence in him to be hurling obscene abuse at a daemon-prince when he could hardly swing the sword at his side. He had no idea just how powerful it was – not that it mattered; Styrax knew he had to fight it now. The daemon haunted his dreams nightly, looking for a way to gain his soul. He knew it would come as soon as it was called.

How many birds will 1 take with this one stone? he thought. To be free of the daemon would be enough, but if these tachrenns see me defeat it – a feat Lord Chalat could never have managed – they'll follow me across the entire Land. If in the process the temple is unfortunately destroyed – well, we shall see if a Crystal Skull does indeed feed the eternal flame.

Yellow eyes shone bright in the darkness and the daemon opened its mouth to reveal a double set of thin, pointed teeth. Lord Styrax was more concerned with the double-headed flail the daemon had in one hand and the cleaver-like weapon in its other. Its tri-toed feet sported massive hooked talons. Through the ripped and tattered cloak it wore he could glimpse plates of bone and slabs of muscle, all overlaid by scarred skin and, in parts, bony protrusions that looked almost like a scrappy pelt of curved fangs. Even in the warm air, the daemon's breath was clouds of vapour.

'Your promises are empty, your word is broken,' it snarled. 'This temple yet stands; my name is unspoken and unworshipped in this place.'

'Do you think I ever had any intention of serving you?' Styrax replied calmly, walking around the daemon, forcing it to turn awk¬wardly to remain facing him. Those powerful legs were impressive, but as Styrax had guessed, they weren't designed for turning in a circle. 'Do you think I would defile this place by speaking your name?'

'You are nothing compared to me, little mortal, and your arrogance has earned you a place in Ghenna. My realm waits to welcome you.'

Styrax stopped circling. He didn't want to give the creature time to get comfortable. It came from a place where magic dictated every¬thing, and now it would have to adapt to the requirements of the physical world and its physical laws. 'You don't own my soul, daemon; you never did.' Drawing on the Skull he carried, Styrax wove a pro¬tective web about himself. His magical skills were proficient, and with the Skull he was probably more powerful than the daemon, but it was an ancient being, and he didn't want to risk getting into a magical struggle. He was banking on the fact that it would be unused to single combat with weapons alone. With a shell of raw energy from the Skull around him he would be safe from the subtle spells that would come so naturally to such an entity. Now all I've got to contend with is the strength and speed of a daemon'prince, Styrax thought to himself wryly.

The daemon, feeling the white-eye's protective energy, gave a bestial roar and glared, jerking its flail, ready to strike.

Keeping one eye on the daemon's feet as its talons clacked on the stone floor, Styrax moved fast across the centre of the temple, and the twin mace-like heads whistled harmlessly past as, predictably, the daemon swung the flail at his head. It wasted no time in following up the attack, spinning gracelessly around and attacking with the cleaver, forcing Styrax to back up and shift his balance.

He was on the alert now, careful to keep his broadsword from being snagged by the flail's chain-links. He slashed at the daemon's left hand; Kobra glanced harmlessly off the daemon's wrist as Styrax side-stepped the flail as it came back around. He hacked down at the elbow joint, but missed, shuddering in pain as the cleaver came down onto his own shoulder-plate.

He was forced into a crouch by the power of the blow, but the armour held and, roaring his defiance, Styrax drove upwards towards the daemon, slamming the scored shoulder-plate into its gut and putting his full weight into pushing it back. He swung Kobra, smash¬ing aside the cleaver as it came down again and following that with two deep cuts across the daemon's midriff. As it fell back under the force of his attack, Styrax caused a greyish slab to appear at an angle under its feet. Unbalanced, it staggered sideways and he dropped to the ground, lashing out with one tree-trunk of a leg and connected with the daemon's knee.

Propelling himself upright, Styrax slashed with all his prodigious strength, a straight cut up that would have split a normal man from groin to scalp, but the daemon jumped back with unnatural speed. Styrax readied himself for the counter-attack, but it never came.

Instead, the daemon gave a deep, cold laugh. 'Your skills are impres¬sive, but you are still just a mortal, little man,' it mocked.

Styrax didn't reply, beyond shifting to a more comfortable grip on the hilt of his broadsword. The exchange had lasted only a few seconds, but it had been long enough to tell him what he wanted to know about the daemon. When it struck, it moved with blurring speed, and not even a white-eye of Styrax's ability could match that. But the daemon had revealed its greatest weakness. It had no imagi¬nation.

He leapt forward, slashing from first one side, then the other. The daemon gave a little ground but it parried each blow with ease. It could not see the satisfied little smile on Kastan Styrax's lips, for his mouth was hidden by the black helm he'd won from Koezh Vukotic, his greatest test so far. Koezh was a superb swordsman, his skill had been considered supernatural even when he had been a normal man marching under his father's banner during the Great War. Against Koezh the ancient vampire, Styrax had needed every ounce of guile he possessed, blended with the unnatural speed and skill granted by his patron, Karkarn, the God of War himself. Against this daemon- prince, all he needed was a brain. It mocked him for being a mortal, yet it was exactly this that would prove its undoing.

Styrax flourished his sword, noting the daemon's eyes following the tip until it came to rest again. He spoke loudly, so even the watching Chetse could hear. 'Daemon, you're a fool.' He took a step forward, moving out of the way when it thrashed the air with its flail and tore up a chunk of stone from the temple floor. Sending a surge of magic beneath his feet, Styrax swept up through the air above the daemon's head, easily deflecting the surprised swipe it aimed at him, then dropped down and scored a glancing blow on its shoulder.

Again, the daemon reacted, but Styrax had already shifted position and as its enormous arm lifted, he lunged, stabbing Kobra's fangs into the armpit, pushing deep as the daemon howled in pain and fury.

Styrax retreated and gave a roar of adrenalin-fuelled satisfaction. 'Do you see this, daemon?' He brought the sword closer to its face as dull greenish ichor dripped from its fangs. 'You bleed, daemon, like any mortal; can you feel it now?'

He drew a heady surge of energy into his body and felt flames rise from the armour encasing his body, an echo of the armour used to ensnare his son. In the distance he heard Kohrad's strained bellow, hoarse defiance that sent a thirst for revenge shuddering through his body.

'And that feeling is fear – can you feel it now?' he asked. 'Have you been a prince among daemons for so long you've forgotten fear?' He was happy to take his time now, to put on a show for the watching commanders.

Try to take my son's soul? For that, I'll make you hurt. 'I'll show you what fear is again, daemon, and when I send you back broken and ruined to your pestilent burrow in the deepest pit of Ghenna, before you are consumed by the scavengers there you will tell them. You will spread the word and teach them to fear me. I will destroy and leave for the vultures any daemon that thinks it can own or control me or mine.'

He charged forward and smashed aside the daemon's sword, step¬ping inside the reach of the flail and grabbing its wrist. As it tried to get an arm around his neck, Styrax reversed his sword and stabbed backwards into the daemon's gut, then snapped his head back to smash the reinforced peak of his helm into the daemon's jaw. Before it had time to recover, Styrax wrapped his free hand with white coils of fire and punched into the daemon's right arm. The fire exploded on impact in a shower of burning glassy shards that buried deep into its flesh.

With Kobra still reversed he slashed it up across the inside of the daemon's right knee, halting the backswing almost immediately as he grabbed the hilt with both hands and drove the tip back down into the open wound. The fangs went deep and the daemon screamed.

Now Styrax could hear its fear. For perhaps the first time in ten thousand years the daemon-prince was afraid.

'Fear me,' Styrax growled, ripping his sword from the wound and drawing another great swell of magic into his gut. White sparks burst at the edges of his vision as he drew as much as he could, resolving to change the manner of attack before the daemon could adapt. Around him the temple swam and he heard a shrieking chitter run around the walkway. The flames rose on his body, growing fierce and hot on his skin, but the pain was both exhilarating and intoxicating. At that moment he knew how his son had developed the addiction to the daemon's armour.

He punched forward with both fists, hammering them into the daemon's scarred midriff and releasing the magic inside at the same moment. The flames rushed through him and surged over the daemon as it was slammed backwards into one of the temple's great pillars. It crashed with the sound of mountains colliding, and the great blocks of stone creaked and wavered under the impact.

'Do you fear me yet, daemon?' Styrax roared.

A howl of rage preceded a torrent of black energy that flew towards him. Styrax dived out of the way and it hit the stone floor where he'd been standing an instant before, cracking the stone with a crash. His shield wouldn't stop raw power, but at least the daemon would be fighting on a white-eye's terms rather than its own.

Styrax retaliated with a wildly thrown spear of fire that lanced into the pillar above the daemon. It scorched a ten-foot segment black and tore another great hole in the stone.

The daemon jumped up in the air, talons ready to rake down into Styrax's body. The white-eye rose to meet it, using his body like a huge armoured fist, knocking the daemon off-balance and driving it into the white shaft of the eternal flame. A bright burst of fire flashed out across the temple as the daemon passed through Tsatach's holy light and it screamed in pain. Styrax gave it no chance to recover.

He dived through the flame himself and stabbed down into the torso of the daemon, putting all his weight behind the blow. It howled and punched up at him, launching the Menin lord up into the air to smash one of the walkways between the pillars. The stone slabs exploded in a shower of stone shards and blistering sparks and the entire temple shuddered as the magic holding it up started to fail.

Styrax crashed to the ground, the shock of the impact sending a stab of pain through his body. For a moment the Land seemed to stop around him-

The scent of grass appeared in his mind. Styrax smiled inwardly as he remembered his father; the mornings out in the meadow when he'd first learned how to use a sword. Caution and calm had been his father's constant mantra; 'Lure them into rashness, never do so yourself.' Styrax nodded and felt his lips twitch in echo as his father, now centuries deceased, repeated that advice to his son: 'Pride, my son, pride is a reaper.'

– and the Land rushed back with noise and fire and pain and light assaulting every sense. His instincts retook control and drove him for¬ward. Not even stopping to catch his breath, Styrax ran to the temple altar as purple bands of magic lashed down, carving great rents in the paved floor where he'd crouched just a few moments earlier.

Bracing his good foot against the altar, he pushed off into the air, feeling the muscles in his back strain as he readied another blow. Kobra was covered in ichor now, and it left a trail of deep crimson light through the air as it smashed into the daemon's own cruelly curved weapon, which exploded into a thousand tiny shards. Styrax let the force of the blow spin him back around, giving him a moment to recover his wits.

A fountain of magic erupted from the broken stub of the cleaver, green trails whipping around like enraged snakes. The daemon hissed and threw it away. It skittered across the floor for ten yards before coming to an abrupt halt. Out of the corner of his eye Styrax saw the lashing snakes slam down into the ground and begin to worm their way under the stone paving slabs, driving them up.

The daemon now held its flail with both hands, keeping the mace-heads moving, swinging them up threateningly whenever Styrax took a step closer. So fear has taught you something then, he thought with a grim smile. Try to keep me at hay while you work out what to do.

He feinted forward and was rewarded by the flail being whipped across where his knees would have been. As soon as the heads had passed Styrax leaped forward for real, following the swinging chains back to the source and chopping down to sever the daemon's right wrist. Burning green ichor spurted out over the temple floor and it reeled back, trying desperately to ward him off.

The white-eye ignored the flail as it clattered weakly off his armour and lashed out at the daemon's already damaged knee-joint. The force of the blow sent a judder along the blade that numbed Styrax's hands, but his ferocious resolve drove him on and he turned to smash an elbow into the daemon's gut. The handle of the flail crashed against the side of his head, sending black stars bursting across his eyes, but the daemon was weak now, and the battering, though painful, was too weak to stop him.

He rained down blows until at last he had the daemon-prince on the end of his fanged sword. Kobra pierced its chest and pinned it against a great marble column.

Styrax staggered for a moment. The air was alive with colours and magic rampaging uncontrolled; the air shuddered under the assault and he could hear the screams and hollers of the inhabitants of the Dark Place all around him. On the edge of his sight he saw flames against a looming darkness, the border between realms weakening further. His eyes were blurred and fiery pain flared in his gut, but he had enough strength left for the killing blow. With a roar he yanked Kobra free then hewed savagely at the daemon's neck and deep into the pillar behind. The impact almost lifted him off his feet as the black sword cleaved through stone; for a terrible heartbeat the dark¬ness descended and the heat of Ghenna's sulphurous fires washed over his skin, then he tore the blade clear and staggered out beyond the temple's boundary line into the cool morning light.

He staggered forward, a groan escaping his lips as he fought to find the ground under each step. It took a few moments for the Land to steady underneath him and the fire behind his eyes to fade enough for him to see again. He sank to his knees and tore his helm off, gasping at the touch of the morning air on his skin.

Somewhere behind the blur he heard someone – Kohrad? – shout, 'Father!' Then someone tried to slip his fingers around Kobra's hilt… with an effort he made out Kohrad's face and forced open his fist so his son could take the sword from his hand.

Drawing Kohrad close, Styrax put his lips to his ear and whispered fiercely, 'Find it.'

As he spoke, a symphony of shattering stone filled the air and a tremble ran through the ground like a massive earthquake. The pillar Styrax had hacked into was buckling as the magic was drawn into Ghenna with the daemon-prince's broken spirit. A thunderous crash split the air as the pillar collapsed onto the ruined temple floor, fol¬lowed by the relentless sound of thousands of tons of stone imploding as the Temple of the Sun became a daemon's cairn.

Eventually the devastation slowed to a halt and the echoes of the temple's death faded away, leaving nothing more than a memory ringing in their ears. After that, there was only a ragged sound that Styrax could not place for a while until he realised it was his own laboured breath. Around him, everything was perfectly still, the hush of a temple at prayer.

He blinked as the Land crept back into focus. It was covered by a haze; for a moment Styrax wondered what had happened to his eyes until he realised it was a cloud of dust. He let Kohrad help him to his unsteady feet and bear his weight for a moment longer, then a voice in the back of his mind reminded him that the young warrior still had a task to perform.

He straightened and gave Kohrad a light shove towards the ruin of the temple, then made his way waveringly to the group of Chetse commanders who were standing some twenty yards off. They looked aghast, too stunned to even move. One had sunk to his knees in prayer; the others just gaped at the collapse of Tsatach's greatest temple in the Land – and the eternal flame, the burning heart of the Chetse tribe.

He had just snuffed it out.

The dust swirled out to cover the Temple Plain, fading into nothing in the clear air above them. Somewhere behind him a lose piece of stone thumped heavily onto the packed earth of the temple floor.

'Gentlemen,' Styrax said hoarsely to the assembled Chetse, stagger¬ing sideways for a moment before he reasserted control over his body, 'gentlemen, you are dismissed.'

They stared at him, shocked and uncomprehending. He took another step and his lip twisted into a snarl as the ever-present blood-lust screamed to take charge once more. He heard one start a horrified prayer, but it was only fleeting as they turned and fled like a herd of spooked deer.

Kastan Styrax, Lord of the Menin, grinned drunkenly. He felt a trickle of blood fall from his lip; maybe he'd bitten it. He swung around and saw that Duke Vrill had also backed off to a safe distance. That amused him; this was Vrill's best chance to kill him and become Lord of the Menin himself… but no, Vrill had more sense than that. Kohrad carried Styrax's own sword after all, and he was not as weak as he looked.

Styrax looked out at where the low morning sun shone from just above the western cliffs. In his chest he could feel his heart hammer¬ing away, reminding him with every thump that he was still alive. At each beat he wanted to call out, to shout with laughter. He wiped the blood from his mouth, never once taking his eyes from the horizon beyond which the Gods lived in splendid isolation away from their mortal subjects. The legend was that they had retired there to recover after the Great War and the horrors they had inflicted upon the de¬feated, and there they would stay, apart from the affairs of mortals, content to sit and play with strands of destiny, as long as they never again had to see any of their own dying at the hands of mortals.

Were you watching, you bastards? Do you fear me yetl