The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 27

Isak kept his eyes on the ground to avoid the shattered bricks that littered the road as he ran to the street corner where Major Jachen and the ranger Jeil were crouching. Above them the end wall on the first floor of the building had been smashed through and he glanced up into the black tear in the wall. The building had been converted into a barracks for the Fysthrall soldiers, which must have pleased the rich folk living all around. This part of the city was still dark, for the moment protected from the conflagration they could see consuming south Scree.

'How does it look?' he asked softly.

Jachen looked up. Only his eyes were visible through the helm, but they were enough to betray the man's anxiety. 'It looks quiet, my Lord. The scouts have not seen any mobs following the decoy troops.'

'They're there,' Isak said with certainty. He shone in the darkness with an intensity that made him feel all the more vulnerable. The moons were high and bright, free from the cloud that hung in a wreath around the horizon, and casting their light down to catch the exposed armour of the Farlan soldiers. 'They're probably keeping clear of the Fysthrall soldiers and whatever mages they have left.'

'The good news is that one of the scouts saw troops leaving the Red Palace compound for the Princess Gate, presumably to secure it for when they escape the city.'

Isak nodded. 'Pride; without Scree the Circle is finished. Siala won't abandon the city until the last moment; she won't want to leave un¬less she has to, and she certainly won't want to walk out into the welcoming arms of the Devoted, or the Farlan. No doubt the news that we'd entered the city put a smile on the woman's face.'

'We've sent the decoy troops to the south side of the palace, close enough to dissuade Siala from trying to escape.'

The advance troops consisted of a division of light cavalry led by Suzerain Torl. The clattering of hooves on cobbles was sure to attract attention from the mobs, which was the intention, and Isak was confident the soldiers would be able to ride through all but the most crowded streets.

He looked back at the troops behind him. Those who'd been with him from the beginning in Scree had been bolstered by a regiment of Ghosts and the suzerains from Saroc, Nelbove and Fordan, the first to beg to accompany him. The others had quickly followed, but he'd refused them, allowing those three only after Tila had whispered in his ear that they were men desperate to prove their loyalty. For the first time in what felt like a long time, Isak had laughed out loud. Here and now, these men still played their games, thinking about allegiance, respect, even dynasty. Only the look on Suzerain Fordan's face had stopped his laughter: the man was willing to risk his life just to show he was as true as his father had been – though there had been no breath of suspicion otherwise, still Fordan felt compelled to do this before he could walk proudly in his belligerent father's shoes.

'How far to the palace?' he asked.

'Five hundred yards, my Lord,' Jeil said softly. 'I counted ten guards on the nearest stretch of wall; the rest moved off when they saw the Ghosts to the south. There are no foot patrols beyond the wall.'

'Good.' He beckoned and a handful of figures started to converge upon him. 'I'm taking Leshi, Tiniq, Shinir and Vesna; that's all. Jachen, watch our backs, and get ready to wade in if we get into trouble.'

'Only five of you?'

'It has to be quiet. I don't know how many Fysthrall are still in the palace, but probably more than we can handle. Vesna, are you ready?'

The count gave a curt nod. He looked strange in full armour, especially when on foot and standing next the more lightly armoured rangers. He had the face-plate of his helm up, the lion mask staring up into the sky. His face was tight, fixed in an expression of concentra-i ion, as though he could will his doubts away.

'Let's seek our revenge,' Isak said softly.

They kept to the shadows as best they could, but they were still pain-fully obvious on Scree's dead streets. The silence was disturbing. A city without people was a body without a beating heart. The stench of corruption filled the air. Soon the conflagration in the south would burn everything away, leaving only ash in its wake.

When the wall was almost upon them, Isak pulled off his silver helm and edged his head around the corner of the building, his blue hood blending into the shadows.

What if they did see it? Isak wondered privately. In this place the Gods have abandoned, would they be glad to see the face of Nartis?

There were half a dozen torches burning on the wall, just enough to illuminate the oil-coloured scale pattern of Fysthrall helms, and the white scarves around the soldiers' necks. Every one was shifting uncomfortably or pacing the wall. The ground before the wall was a stretch of formal gardens, with lines of low bushes that might act as shallow trenches for the attack party. Dotted around the gardens were several dozen crumpled shapes. After a few moments Isak could see there were arrows sticking up from some of the bodies.

'Now we need a diversion,' he whispered, 'something to get us close enough to kill them all quickly.'

'And your plan?' Vesna asked.

Isak could hear a strain of hope in the man's voice. 'Worried that I might be making it up as I go along, my devoted bondsman?'

'I'm not your bondsman any more,' the count reminded him, 'but I remain a loyal servant of the tribe, so obviously I'm eager to find out what you want me to do.'

'Excellent.' Isak smiled. 'Now I need to find some bats.'

'Bats?' Vesna and Jachen spluttered together.

'Bats. Night's heralds, Death's winged attendants. Look at the men on the wall; they're all shuffling about, or pacing, or twitching: no one's standing still. That tells me they're nervous. I think we should borrow the majesty of the Gods as we're going to punish a heretic; there's symbolism and everything there.'

Isak grinned at the count, who shook his head wearily. 'You're an example to us all, my Lord,' Vesna said darkly.

Isak reached over and patted the man on the slight peak of his helm. 'That's what I thought. Now shut up and let me concentrate.'

He pulled off one of his gauntlets and closed his eyes as he ran his fingertips over the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass. It was unusu¬ally warm to the touch, as ever, but now the Skull felt as slippery and elusive as a wet icicle. His lingers slid almost without resistance over its surface as he reached out with his senses to the Land beyond.

The air was thick and heavy in his throat; he could almost taste the putrefying wounds of the dying city. Scree was expiring, almost on its last breath. He felt the empty streets all around him, the stony dust of its broken bones and the hot stink of its bloating flesh.

In his mind Isak kicked away from the ground and surged up into the cooling night sky, letting the oppressive street-level air drop away like a shed skin. He sensed the reviving kiss of the wind high above and felt a gasp of pleasure escape his body as the gusts lovingly wrapped him in their chill arms. The cold bright moons prickled his skin and drove the remaining vestiges of Scree's choking oppression from his body, purging the poison from his veins.

Isak sighed. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed using magic, feeling the energies thrumming through his bones, but he'd had no choice – with the vast power available through his two Skulls, one small lapse of concentration would have announced his presence to the rest of the city. He couldn't risk it before, but now… now it was like returning to the embrace of a lover.

The witch said to accept what was inside me, he thought with a smile, so why should that not include magic? It's been with me my whole life, shaped me from womb to throne. Either I embrace it and keep control over it, or 1 risk letting it control me.

He cast his mind back to the battlefield outside Lomin, that winter landscape feeling an age away during this brutal summer heat, and he recalled that scary moment when he literally lost himself in the rampant tides of magic flowing through his body. I refuse to let that happen again, he told himself sternly.

Soothed by the bright night sky, with only the moons for company, he found a moment of contentment – and then, at last, Isak could feel the distant presence of Nartis once more, beyond the western horizon, watching between one moment and the next as the Land continued unaware of the scrutiny. It was nothing like the raging torrent Isak had felt upon Bahl's death – when the looming storm had rushed in to crash over his fragile body and raise him up to where the Gods stood – but something altogether more gentle and comforting. Isak's connection to his God was a delicate thing, too weak to be noticed, until times such as this.

If the God of Storms took note of such a small thing, he did nothing about it. Isak sensed a vigil of sorts, one centred on the black pit of Scree beneath him. Below he fell his body almosl swallowed in the darkness. The weight of the city beneath him was a black stain on the Land; a hole through which the normal order was draining away.

He reached his arms out wide, towards the distant clouds that had been kept at bay for too long. Isak gasped at the vastness of it all, for a moment terribly afraid of the thin shadow of his own soul, spread out over so many miles as the clouds started massing, closing a jealous embrace on the city.

And then here they were: flickering wings and sharp clicks in the darkness, shapes that darted and dodged after insects, flying in long, graceful spirals, drawn ever closer to his light.

He hadn't known what would happen once he was here, but he trusted the witch of Llehden. He remembered when first they met, when the gentry of Llehden had welcomed him as a brother – these creatures that cared nothing for the squabbles of man had recognised in Isak something he didn't quite understand himself. He was no prophesied Saviour – Isak needed no further proof of that, whatever any fool prophecy foretold – but the wilds had always been where he was welcome, and the mark of the Gods had deepened that connec¬tion; now he felt bound, and now he had to learn to understand.

The bats eagerly clustered around him, their sharp hunter minds curious at what they could sense in the air, though they couldn't trace an outline of him against the clouds. They followed him down, spiral' ling towards Scree and the street where Isak's body still crouched, before jinking away at the last moment towards the walls of the Red Palace. He opened his eyes just in time to see the swirling cloud of shadows descend upon the terrified soldiers, a darting funnel whipping around them as they ducked down fearfully.

Isak took a few steps forward, out into the moonlight where his armour shone brightly, and slid his helm over his head. No warning voices came from the wall; the Fysthrall guards were too intent on hiding from the column of bats that was spinning tighter and tighter. Isak felt magic billow through the night air, blossoming on the wall like flames bursting into being. He slid the shield from his back and onto his arm, anticipating an attack, before realising it was coming from the bats themselves.

'What have you done?' moaned the usually reticent Tiniq.

Isak tore his eyes away from the bats for a moment; General Lahk's twin looked like he was about to be sick, He felt a shudder echo through the air from the wall and looked back to see the bats had vanished, to be replaced by a tall figure holding aloft a tall silver standard topped by a stylised sculpted shape.

'What is that?' Vesna asked grimly, loosening his sword. 'Have you woken another elemental?' His tone wasn't accusatory, just deter¬mined.

'Piss and blood,' Tiniq replied, dazed, 'look at the standard.'

They all did so, then Vesna hissed with trepidation, 'Merciful Death, Isak, it's the Gatekeeper.'

'Gatekeeper?' Isak said. He thought he recognised the standard from somewhere – a circle open on one side with a fist pushed in – but the memory was old, indistinct. Suddenly his heart chilled. 'The Herald of Death?' he gasped.

'It must be,' Vesna said, though he sounded scarcely able to believe what he was saying. 'The Herald takes the dead through his hallway, "where only bats and Gods may linger", and on to Death's final judg¬ment. He holds the keys to the throne room of Death.'

'And he's here to help us,' Isak finished. 'Perhaps the Gods have not entirely abandoned this city.' He pointed to the soldiers on the wall. Those that hadn't fled were silent, staring in horror at the motionless figure, completely oblivious to what might be happening in the streets of the city.

'My Lord, you don't understand!' Vesna sounded aghast. 'The Herald of Death does not leave his halls, he does not appear before the living. He isn't a Bringer of the Slain, he's not one of the Reapers

he should not be here!'

'Well he is,' Isak snapped firmly, 'and whatever portent you intend to read into his presence, it helps our cause. This is a city of the dead and we hunt a necromancer, so I think the rules are changed. Now move yourselves!'

Not waiting for the other four, Isak broke into a run towards the wall. There was a deeply set postern gate to the right but he ignored that, instead heading directly for the nearest part of the wall. From the corner of his eye Isak could see the others making for the gate, Shinir first, ready to scramble up and over to unbar it from the inside, as planned. It was Isak's task to leap straight onto the wall and kill the guards before they could raise the alarm.

He let energy flood his body, infusing his limbs with a burst of new strength. The wall was ten feel of grey bricks, but he vaulted up onto the walkway effortlessly. The nearest guard turned at the sound of metal on stone and died before his eyes could focus on the massive white-eye. A second died in the next heartbeat, still staring at the black skin and crimson robes of the Herald of Death. Only the fourth managed to raise a weapon in his defence and Eolis sheared through the spear-shaft and into the heart with ease.

Isak caught a glimpse of the Herald as two more Fysthrall, shaken out of their trance, ran down the walkway towards him with spears lowered. The Aspect of Death was taller than he, and had perfectly black skin. There were no eyes nor mouth, only slight indentations in an androgynous face. The smooth curve of its skull was broken only by its ears – and at that, Isak's memory stirred: the Herald could not see the dead and had no words for them, though Death himself saw all in those halls, and His words were as tangible as the pale grey stone walls.

Isak dragged his mind back to the present in time to deflect the two Fysthrall soldiers, turning into one spear with his shield while felling the other with his sword. The rusty-skinned soldier didn't check his stride in time and Eolis flicked out to pierce his chest. The other tried to pull back, but Isak was faster. He drove his sword across the man's throat. Both fell silently.

He looked towards the postern; the two corpses above it told him Shinir was already at the gate. That moment of distraction almost cost him dearly as a blow to his shoulder spun him around and almost knocked him off his feet. Looking past the motionless Herald, Isak saw a soldier desperately trying to reload his crossbow, and another spearman on the wall, looking bewildered and terrified. Isak, realis¬ing he couldn't risk being hit by another bolt, flung Eolis overhand twenty yards. The sword buried itself into the crossbowman's chest, as easily as a knife sliding into butter.

Seeing Isak unarmed, the spearman found his courage and rushed forward wildly. Isak didn't bother drawing the dagger at his belt. Balling his hand, he drew a fist-full of warm night air and punched it forwards. The soldier was two yards away when the blow hit him and rocked him back on his heels. He stopped dead, confused by what had happened, and took a moment to look down and check for injuries. The Fysthrall was still bewildered when Isak smashed his shield into his head and dropped him for good.

A hush descended, cut only by a low siring of curses from Isak. The line of wall was broken by fat square lowers; Jeil had described them

on the way, and he had been sure there that there would be no one in them – a major design fault meant the arrow-slit windows had no real views of the approaching streets. As a result, each section of the wall was isolated. They had gained the wall furthest from the main part of the palace and, thus far, they hadn't been seen.

The Herald hadn't moved. It stood and stared straight at Isak, its lack of eyes apparently no hindrance to knowing exactly where he was. Something about its stance spoke of a readiness, of impending movement. Isak suddenly began to feel vulnerable without his sword, but Eolis lay behind the nightmarish Aspect of Death, catching the moonlight as it stood out from the soldier's impaled chest like a parody of the Herald's standard.

He fought the urge to step back. The minor deity had helped them in some small way, but he had this strange feeling that the Herald was on the point of attacking him. In that expressionless face Isak sensed rage, a boiling anger that was hardly contained.

'You see me,' whispered a voice in Isak's mind. 'You can smell your prey, but still I am beyond your grip.' He gave a slight start – then realised it was not the Herald, but Aryn Bwr, the spirit of the dead Elf king he held prisoner in his mind, on the threshold of Death's domain. Suddenly it all made sense.

Isak pulled his helm from his head, revealing the blue mask that echoed Nartis' face. As he did so, he felt the building tension break I ike a wave on the shore. Relief washed over him, but Isak was careful to bow deeply to the Aspect, ignoring the sharp flare of pain in his shoulder as the arrow-tip twisted in the shallow wound it had made.

'Thank you, my Lord,' he said formally. He had no idea if that was the correct way to address a minor God.

The Herald gave no indication of being either angered or flattered. The scarlet-robed figure inclined its own head and turned away. Isak caught a glimpse of an elongated ear on the side of its head before the night air blurred and the Herald seemed to collapse inward on itself, disintegrating into a fluttering mass of black shapes that exploded in all directions and then faded into the night.

'Lord Isak,' Vesna hissed, from the open doorway in the nearby lower housing the steps.

Isak blinked at the night, suddenly aware that he was staring into nothingness, exposed in the torchlight. 'Give me a hand here,' he said, dropping to one knee and fumbling at Siulents' hidden clasps.

His armour of flowing silver was remarkable to behold, mesmerising opponents and giving him a presence that no mere king could ever attain, but being unable to see joins and clasps until they were open presented problems sometimes.

'How deep is it? Can we dress it and go on?' Count Vesna sounded calmer, more assured. The distraction of battle had caused years of instinct to kick in. Isak was glad to hear the change in his voice, even though he was certain his most loyal of allies would never fail him.

'Sliced the skin, I think, no more. Just help me get this damn shoulder-plate off and the bloody thing out of me – anything more can wait; I'll not bleed to death from a scratch.'

Vesna did so, experienced hands sliding under the plate and bring¬ing it up off Isak's shoulder. The white-eye grimaced as the arrow jagged in the wound again, but Siulents had taken most of the force and the barb had hooked just inside the plate. Vesna quickly snapped the shaft and withdrew the crude iron head.

He checked the wound and, some of his old humour back, an¬nounced, 'It's bleeding happily enough, but you'll live.' Once Isak's armour was restored and the reflective helm was back in place, Vesna pointed towards the doorway. 'The others are waiting below there. Are you sure you know where we're going?'

Isak nodded and began walking briskly, calling Eolis to him as he did so. Turn is in there,' he said, pointing to a circular tower that rose from the end of a large hall on the eastern side of the palace. 'I can feel the magic'

'Can you be sure it's him? I thought the Circle still had a number of mages left.'

'It's him. I can feel powerful wards there, and I think the vampire is the only other person here with the strength for that. He's not tried to be subtle; they're a warning as much as anything.'

'But you can break them?'

'One way or another,' Isak said firmly, 'but it won't be neat, so let's get there quickly and quietly. I'm betting every servant left in the palace is holed up in a wine cellar somewhere, drowning their terror, so we move fast and we kill whoever is in our way, understand?'

There was the slightest of pauses from Vesna, and Isak felt the man's weariness like the glow of a flaring ember before the count agreed.

They walked through darkened corridors with weapons drawn. The palace had the air of the recently abandoned; tasks were left

unfinished, storerooms left open. There were no servants anywhere to be seen, no footsteps or voices echoing down the stone passageways, until they reached the inner parts of the palace, where the walls shook off their martial air and the red-painted plaster gave a more elegant look.

The first hall they came to housed a pair of soldiers, and Tiniq and Leshi ghosted forward to kill them both, with nothing more than a cut-off cough of surprise from one. The rangers dragged the bodies out of immediate sight, leaving nothing but a red smear on the flanks of the stag painted on the tiled floor.

Isak looked around to gain his bearings, looking like a hunting dog sniffing the air. 'He's that way, still in his tower.'

'Surely he can sense you?'

Isak shrugged. 'He probably felt something happen on the walls, but I suspect he feels secure behind those wards. No point looking for a fight. He'll be wanting to save his strength.'

'So what do you want us to do?'

'A diversion of some sort,' Isak said. 'Set fire to a flour store or something, I don't really care what. Just draw whatever guards he might have away so I can get a clear run at him.'

'You're going alone?'

'Not quite,'replied a deep, booming voice behind them. As one the Farlan turned, ready to attack, faltering when they recognised the two figures standing in the shadows of the corridor.

'Ehla?' Isak gasped, 'Fernal? When- How did you gel here?'

'With rather more subtlety than you,' the witch of Llehden replied sounding like an exasperated older sister. At her side, Fernal flexed his massive taloned hands, staring fixedly at the weapons still levelled towards him.

Isak gestured and the blades were put up. Fernal stilled.

'Calling up an Aspect of Death to help you get over a wall? That smacks of showmanship, if you ask me.'

'It was hardly intentional,' Isak said hotly, not in the mood to be chastised by anyone.

'You can manage something like that by accidentV She sounded horrified at the suggestion. 'I don't know which would be worse; that yow at turn could have such consequences, or that a man with your power would warn to show it off so badly.'

'My Lord?' Vesna interrupted uncertainly, shilling his armoured body from one foot to the other. Isak nodded; they were rather too exposed for his liking as well.

'Go. Lord Fernal, they could use your help.'

The Demi'God shook his mane of midnight-blue hair and gave a soft growl, until Ehla laid a thin hand upon his arm. Vesna hesitated, looking from his lord to the newcomers before realising it would be better for them to leave. He strode away, the others close on his heels.

Ehla spoke a few words of her own language, soft and soothing, and Fernal fired a brief volley of thick sounds back. Their voices were so different Isak couldn't even tell if they had spoken the same language, but Fernal gave a curt nod and stepped forward to look Isak directly in the eye.

'We have a form of kinship, you and I,' Fernal said hesitantly, taking care over the words that fitted uneasily around his thick fleshy tongue and great incisors. The words were clear and easily recognisable, but Isak could see Fernal was determined to get them absolutely correct. He felt a pang of sympathy for the strange beast-man; Fernal must know better than Isak how appearance could be a hindrance to every other aspect of life. The care he took said very obviously 1 am not the beast 1 appear, in a way Isak had rarely bothered with. 'I ask you to keep her safe, as I promised back in Llehden.'

'I will,' Isak acknowledged with a respectful nod, ignoring Fernal's unspoken words of warning. Two large men in a cramped room, he thought, neither of us wanting to jostle the elbow of the other.

Fernal loped off after the soldiers with long strides, his thick mane billowing as he caught them up.

Isak turned back to Ehla and immediately felt uncomfortable as he saw he was being scrutinised. There was something about her poise that set Isak on edge, making him horribly aware of every idle move¬ment and pointless gesture, especially when compared to her disturb¬ingly still presence. She was a handsome woman – he guessed her at close to forty summers – but her aura of utter self-assurance unsettled him. It was a mask even more effective than his own, and it ensured he remained a shade off-balance around her.

'Well, shall we go, or continue to watch each other like the last couple left at the village dance?'

Isak sighed. 'For a village crone you sound an awful lot like King Emin,' he commented sourly, pointing the way.

Ehla cocked her head at him. 'Even isolated as we are, we're still reminded of the man's greatness from time to time, so I shall take that as a compliment.'

'He has his faults,' Isak said darkly, and walked on ahead, hand on the hilt of his sword. Behind him, Ehla breathed a word he couldn't recognise, though it sounded like a curse. Perhaps the crone comment had got past the mask after all; he smiled and filed that thought away for later.

After two corridors and another empty hall they found a small storeroom that had obviously not been used recently. It was only six foot square, with a roughly hewn hexagonal pillar rising from near its centre and piercing the ceiling. It looked like an architectural after¬thought, but it was perfect for Isak's needs and he said an awkward prayer in his mind to whichever of the Gods were looking down upon him. They were legendarily fickle creatures, the Gods, and he knew he'd be in greatest need of their help once the deed was done.

They only had to wait five minutes. Whatever Count Vesna had set ablaze, it had gone up like a sacrifice to Tsatach and Isak could smell the bitter scent of smoke faintly even before a unit of soldiers clattered past in the direction of the fire.

'How did you get into the palace?' Isak whispered as they waited to see whether any more men were coming from that direction.

'A witch can always find a way in; few have the strength of mind to deny us.'

'And in this case?' he replied testily at her elusive answer.

Ehla shrugged. 'I knocked on one of the doors. It took them a little by surprise because they hadn't seen us reach the door, but I persuaded them to let us in and then used a little spell to send them to sleep.'

'Sleep?' Isak said in surprise. A vision of Fernal's great talons and bough-like arms rose in his mind.

'Certainly. Death should always be a last resort,' Ehla chided. 'You would do well to remember that; it might come in useful one of these days.'

Isak suppressed a shiver; her tone had been just a little too pro¬phetic for his liking. He scowled and turned away. 'Come on, I can't hear anyone else nearby – unless you're about to complain about me killing Purn?'

'Not at all; necrornancers harm at the balance of the Land, so I have no sympathy for them Let him explain himself to Lord Death and whatever daemons he's made his bargains with. The Land will be better without him.'

Isak didn't reply. That the Chief of the Gods would be pleased had little to do with why he was here. The worm of guilt over Lord Bahl's death continued to gnaw at him. He'd tried to shake it off – he knew Bahl had been a driven man, not one to pay heed to incoherent dreams – but when you couldn't persuade yourself, what chance was there? The necromancer Isherin Purn was to blame; that was undeni¬able, and part of Isak clung to the hope that his own guilt would die with Purn's.

They left the storeroom and followed the corridor to a long hall, which was lined on both sides with large sculptures on plinths, some taller even than Isak. They represented the Gods in various poses: Death sitting in judgment over some prostrate sinner; Nartis hunting, his spear raised high over a lumbering bear. Between the statues were smaller dioramas – stilt houses on a river bank, salmon leaping over rocks – made of stone, inlaid with ivory, silver and jet.

The witch inspected one and made a face of disgust. 'They call this art! Dead things cut to resemble the living, while they sit in their lifeless cities.'

At the end of the hall they passed two enormous blood-red pillars, with grand wooden staircases leading off in both directions, curling around to meet up on the next floor. Isak eased his way onto the first of the polished mahogany steps, trying to gauge how much they would creak under his weight. When he was satisfied, he glanced at the witch, but she was already past him and heading to another doorway on the right, through which he could see a spiral staircase.

'You might want to let me go first,' Isak said softly.

'Feeling the hero at last!'

He smiled. 'No, but for all your tricks, I don't think you can match a necromancer's power.'

With his senses, Isak caressed the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass. The ready power within sent a warm glow through his body, prickling on his skin under the armour and running around the shape of the scar Xeliath had burned onto his chest. A different tower, he thought wryly, a different age. Would even my father or Carel back then have recognised me like this!

Ehla's hand closed around his wrist. 'Won't he be expecting that!'

'What do you mean?'

'His wards are obvious to any mage, almost a challenge to a contest of power for anyone such as you. Would it not be safer to be circumspect, in case this is a trap?'

Isak almost laughed. 'Circumspect? I'm a white-eye who knew nothing about magic a year ago. How in the name of the Dark Place do you expect me to out-think a mage of his experience? If you have any suggestions, please don't hold back.'

'I do.'

Isak froze. That wasn't Ehla's voice; he realised after a moment that it was Aryn Bwr who spoke. Gone was the usual sour note of regret and loss in the dead Elf's voice. There was a sudden clarity, and for once Isak was eager to hear what he had to say.

'The spells are simple and direct,' Aryn Bwr continued after a pause, as though having taken a moment to study the problem. 'They are set to detect anyone walking up the staircase; such a thing can be easily circumvented.'

'How?' Isak said hesitantly. He looked within himself to check his hold over Aryn Bwr was absolute, but nothing had changed; his cap¬tive appeared honestly willing to help. Could the last king have found a way around his bonds? Isak's mind raced, but he couldn't think of anything Aryn Bwr could do. His hold was too complete, too funda¬mental to be subverted.

'A spell that will turn them in on each other, allow them to negate each other. My tutor called it the grave-robber's spell. It will take more skill to cast than you have. 1 will have to do it myself.'

Isak didn't answer. The witch just stared at him, her expression indecipherable. He assumed Ehla must have heard Aryn Bwr's words, but she gave no sign of it, nor any further advice. The white-eye checked again his hold over the dead king, mistrust and fear delaying any decision. The spirit sensed his indecision, and the familiar sour taste of contempt appeared at the back of Isak's throat, but Aryn Bwr said nothing, nor did he retract his offer.

Quickly Isak took the Crystal Skulls from their places and slid them onto the shield he carried, the only part of the armour not forged by Aryn Bwr. 'Fine, do it.'

Without hesitation the dead king drifted forward through Isak's consciousness, overlaying and sliding past his mind like a gliding mist. It was done with great care, gently enough that Isak felt only a disconcerted tremble as his bands and lips began to move without his volition. Isak stood still, ready to fight back at the slightest provoca¬tion, but the dead Elf was careful not to do anything to antagonise him as he drew a sliver of magic and began to weave it.

The actions were hesitant at first, like a man playing a long neglected instrument, but they grew in confidence as past skills returned. Isak watched in fascination as he felt the syllables of the spell slither over his mind. He couldn't work out the literal meanings, but he was able to discern the shape of the spell. The scar on his chest glowed hot and sharp, as though the part of Xeliath imprinted into his skin railed against Elven touch, but Isak ignored the pain and continued to watch, drinking it all in.

With increasing assurance, Aryn Bwr drew strands of energy, weav¬ing the words of the spell so they shaped the energy and bent it to the task at hand. It required a deftness of touch and instinct beyond anything Isak had seen before; he recognised a true mastery, beyond anything he'd witnessed before.

As soon as it was completed, Aryn Bwr sent the spell forward into the stones of the walls that lined the tight spiral stair.

Isak felt the words lodge and bite like a crowbar, testing and prob¬ing at the cracks between stones as more power was fed to them. Within moments, the wall began to groan and a shudder ran through the flagstones underfoot. His eyes widened as the foot-thick stones juddered and shook in the surge of magic like sheets of paper hung up in the breeze.

Thin trails of dust fell from between the stones as first one and then another began to twist within the wall. Isak's gasp of astonishment was drowned out by the grind of others following suit as the walls on each side of the spiral stair suddenly came alive with movement. The great blocks squirmed and fought to escape as Aryn Bwr's incantation droned on, growing in intensity as the stones shook in rhythm with each syllable, the grating sound getting more insidious-

Until, suddenly, it was finished.

The last word hung tantalisingly in the air as each stone in the stairwell hesitated, teetering on the brink for an instant… until a soft, unbidden breath escaped Isak's pursed lips. He felt it drift for¬ward, but instead of dissipating, it continued on to the stairway and as it reached the stones, it gave one final spasm before spinning neatly around, that movement rippling away to the next and the next, lead¬ing away up the staircase. Wherever a spell bad been left in wait for anyone ascending, a bright flash of white or green burst from nothing as the magic was torn apart, leaving angry sparks crackling in the air. The sounds continued up the stairs, out of sight, then there was a great yawning of timber, the scrape of dagger-points on stone, one final snap and a flash of light…

The echo of the spell raced away behind them to other parts of the palace as a stunned silence fell over Isak and Ehla.

'Now it is safe for you to walk,' said the last king in Isak's head, leaving a sense of satisfaction lingering as he receded unbidden back into the depths of Isak's soul. The white-eye cast a sideways look at Ehla; her face remained inscrutable and she paid him no attention as she stared ahead.

As though in response to that final crash echoing away, a gust of wind came up from behind him, bringing another taste of smoke on the air. That stirred Isak into action and he replaced the Skulls before advancing to the foot of the spiral staircase.

After a slight hesitation he began to walk up the stairs cautiously, his shield raised above him. The warm glow of raw energy enveloped his body. Ehla followed him, two paces behind. After half a dozen steps, the stairs remained still and quiet, the stones of the wall sat neatly in line. The only trace of magic was a dwindling metallic scent and a sooty scorch-mark near the top.

Isak moved softly when he reached the scorched bit, but nothing happened and before he was really prepared he found himself before a narrow iron-studded door. He was inspecting it as Ehla caught him up, hut he could detect no magic bound into it, and Aryn Bwr kept silent in his mind. With a shrug, Isak lowered his shoulder, ready to smash the door down, when the gnarled head of the witch's staff appeared in front of him.

She slid into his field of vision, careful to keep from touching the wall. 'That door is reinforced' she said into his thoughts.

'You don't think I can break it down?' Isak replied. The energy shud¬dering through his limbs was crying out to be used.

'I'm. quite sure you can, but using power for power's sake? Don't kill when it is not necessary; don't destroy when a little elegance will suffice.' She pressed a pale hand against the iron lock and closed her eyes.

Abashed, Isak released his grip on the magic raging over his armour and pushed it back into the Skull. He eased himself back to allow Ehla a little more room, hut she didn't seem to notice as she concentrated.

A click came from inside the door, then the grind and clunk of bolts sliding back. A slight tremble ran through her body as each one shot open, but her voice rang strong in his head as she opened her eyes and smiled at him. 'There, now all it needs is a little push.'

Isak reached out the emerald pommel of Eolis and nudged the door with it, but instead of just swinging open, as he'd expected, the scrape of metal heralded the entire door crashing down onto the floor of the room beyond it. Under his helm, Isak raised his eyebrows in surprise, and a pleased sound came from Ehla's direction, almost as if she could see his face.

'I certainly didn't expect you.' The voice was unexpected.

Isak peered inside; the room was dimly lit by a single large candle on a bracket to the right of the doorway. The objects at the far end were nothing more than shadows. Ahead of him, still seated at a long desk supported by four thin legs, was the Menin necromancer, Isherin Purn.

Isak ducked through the doorway, his sword and shield ready. 'Who did you expect?' he asked cautiously.

'Someone else.' Purn's command of the Farlan dialect was flaw-less, better than Isak's, despite the fact that he was Menin by birth. 'Aracnan, to be precise.'

'Aracnan? Is he in the city?' Isak was getting a little confused.

Purn shrugged. 'Not that I've seen, but I asked myself who would not mind the mobs roaming the city, and be able to break through my defences so adeptly. I once – ahem – borrowed something that belonged to Aracnan. He claimed it back without resorting to unpleasantness, but I've always suspected he was just biding his time.' The necroman¬cer tilted his head a little to the side. 'Perhaps he wouldn't have made quite so much noise getting in here, but the question remains why you've bothered to make the journey when we've never even met.'

'Can't you guess?'

Purn thought for a moment. 'That damned vampire gave you my servant? The wretch; Nai never could stop his chattering. I doubt you even had to torture him.'

Isak said nothing. If the necromancer was in the mood to talk, perhaps just to prolong his life another few minutes, there was always the chance he would say something of interest.

'So you're aware of my orders,' Purn continued, his hands starting to slowly move.

Isak reached out an armoured hand and the necromancer's arms were stretched out and held fast, bonds of magic looped around them. Isak narrowed his eyes. An object hung from Purn's belt, a slim shard of glass encasing a raven's feather, or something similar, and glinting in the weak light. With a thought, Isak tore it away from the mage and across the room for Ehla to snatch out of the air.

'An escape plan?' Isak asked. The witch nodded, cradling the object in both hands as she inspected it.

'A useful little toy, I think I'll keep this for myself.' 'Try anything else like that and I'll pull your arms off,' he said conversationally.

'You're going to kill me anyway,' Purn pointed out. There was no panic in the Menin mage's voice; he sounded as calm as a monk after prayers.

'But I had intended to do it cleanly,' Isak said. 'I promise you, it can hurt a lot more if you annoy me, whether I should be leaving as quickly as possible or not.'

'A fair observation,' Purn said with infuriating acceptance. 'I've recently learned not to underestimate a white-eye's determination.'

'Explain,' Isak commanded, causing the strands of magic to tighten by way of encouragement.

'You're here to kill me; at any other time I'd be fighting tooth and nail to stay alive. Today, however, the sun dawned with a blessing for me.'

'I asked you to explain,' Isak warned.

Purn gave a thin smile that grew wider as he spoke. 'Men of my profession often find themselves party to bargains with the creatures of the dark. Upon my death a number of debts were set to be col¬lected, but the Lord of the Menin has done me a great service. My slate is wiped clean.'

You still have Death to answer to,' Isak said.

The necromancer dismissed the comment with a wave of the hand, Every man must answer to Death; that I am in a position to worry about it is more than satisfactory, a boon I could not have hoped for.' Since his hands were restrained, he dipped his head towards Isak. ' Lord Styrax faced down one of the greatest of daemons this day – I advise you to remember that when he reaches your lands.'

'Is he all they say.'' Isak asked, trying to control the trepidation in his voice. Kastan Styrax had defeated a daemon? First Lord Bahl, then

a creature of the Dark Place; was there anything that could stop the man? Images from his dreams filled Isak's mind: a fanged blade driving into his gut, a black-armoured knight who would mean his death. I know I can't stop him, I've always known that.

Purn laughed. 'All they say? I have heard soldiers and courtiers sing his praises, but how could they really understand? There is a proph¬ecy that says his standard will fly above every city in the Land, but that does not interest me, and I suspect neither does it interest Lord Styrax. Empty men strive for glory or power, for flags and gold and nations on bended knee. The great care only for the stars and the heavens above.'

Isak glanced at his left hand. Encased in silver, the skin underneath remained a perfect snow-white, unchanged since he'd called the storm down onto him on the palace walls in Narkang. The memory of soldiers fighting on the wall reminded him that time was not on his side.

He stepped forward with grim resolve, Eolis raised. 'Then when I see your lord, I'll warn him that those who reach too high end up burned. Give my compliments to Lord Death.'