The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 29

Rojak watched the scene playing out before him and felt a flicker of satisfaction break through the pain wracking his body. The dead were scattered all around. Men, women and children lay curled up in tidy bundles, or sprawled in almost comic poses. Others were little more than lumps of flesh rendered unrecognisable by the brutality done them. He sat in a broken chair scavenged from somewhere by one of the Hounds. It was far from comfortable, but he was in no position to complain – he was in no position to do anything but sit and watch the final death'throes of Scree.

'It is done,' he whispered, to himself or his master, Rojak was not sure now. 1 am done, he added to himself. Azaer's shadows, so close for all these years, felt like they had penetrated him, flesh and bone. As the corruption inside him raged unchecked, his soul faded faster, merging with the intangible essence of his master.

'Not done, not quite.' The susurrus reply echoed in ghostly fashion all around the broken building. Rojak couldn't move, his strength having failed on the steps below. When they had arrived at this place, it had been a scene of fresh devastation, the air tasting abused, and scorched by the rampant energies unleashed by the abbot. The buildings were aflame, or smashed and scattered over the packed-dirt streets.

'It cannot be stopped now, it is too far gone,' Rojak said, compelling his thoughts to order. His master, whispering in his ear, had told him some of what was going on in the rest of the city, and Rojak could feeI a prickling map of hurt on his skin that echoed the destruction, hot stinging fires that consumed whole streets, the slender needles of Crystal Skulls and divine-touched people scraping a path through the flesh as they moved.

'Lord Isak will soon reach Six Temples and there he will be forced to make a stand with the Devoted.' He paused and struggled to breathe.

A shriek from somewhere below marked some deranged citizen stray¬ing too close to Mistress's remaining pet. 'King Emin is so very close now, and soon he will have all that he desires.'

'Then let it play out. Make your final moves on the board before you fall.'

Rojak tried to nod, but the effort defeated him. Death was so close he could almost reach out and touch the robe, as they said in Embere-

But no, not Death; the Chief of the Gods would not claim him. It was not a black robe he felt all around him, merely shadows. Death would not have him. There was no word for what would happen when Rojak's body failed finally. It would be an ending, but not death.

Rojak's vision whirled, flames blurring for a brief while before the details of the street ahead returned. He could just see the rotting corpse of a wyvern, one of the pair kept by the Raylin called Mistress. The beast had had its fill of the clamour and stink of dead meat all around. It had snapped at what it thought was a corpse, but the mo¬ment a canine caught Rojak's sleeve, the minstrel's plague had caught it, passing through its razor-sharp teeth to its tongue and down its throat. Its scales, once glittering in myriad shades of green and gold, had sloughed off as its body erupted in viscous pus-filled boils and thick, black blood had seeped from all its orifices. In a few moments the wyvern was just another rotting pile on the ground.

Rojak sat upstairs in a small house now exposed to the elements after the abbot's magic had torn roof and walls away. It was the closest remaining building to where the abbot himself lay gibbering, curled in a foetal position, in what was left of his cellar. The furious incarnation of Erwillen, the abbot's Aspect-Guide, fuelled by the Skull's power and random blasts of raw energy, had blown up the building.

Much of what remained was still burning fiercely; the protective ring of fire kept the boldest of Scree's citizens away for the time being. There was little of the house left intact now, only the thick stones of the kitchen hearth and the wall opposite it, almost to the height of a man. The rest was broken stumps of wood and heaps of stained brick. Amid the rubble lurked the soot-blackened feathers and claws of the High Hunter. Rojak could hear the beast's laboured breathing, no doubt echoing Abbot Doren's own exertions.

'Venn,' he croaked. The slim man came to his side as though glid-ing on ice, his tattooed face completely unreadable. Diamond'shapes ran down his left cheek, running around his ear and down the side of his throat, disappearing under the frayed neckline of his tunic. 'It is time for you to leave.'

'Leave?' Venn said in surprise. He spoke in the thick, rolling vowels of Embere. It was an affectation of his, to speak to everyone in the accent of their home, even those like Rojak, who had lost all trace of their past.

'You must leave now,' Rojak repeated. 'You cannot be caught up in the death of the city.'

'You're going to need me here,' Venn insisted, pointing towards Flitter, who was crouched in the furthest corner and looking out at

the abbot's ruined house. If Rojak had been able to turn his head and see through the fog of shadows that thickened in his eyes, he would have spotted the three tight knots of soldiers that were advancing steadily. 'Flitter has said that King Emin outnumbers us. He has the vampire with him.'

Rojak beckoned Venn closer and without hesitating he leaned closer, though Rojak could see his nostrils twitch. 'What must come to pass here is for me to decide. I have plans for you, so do as I tell you.'

Venn didn't argue further. He knew well that Rojak's foresight was unnatural. 'What do you wish me to do?'

'Find Ilumene. You and he shall prepare the way, ready the Land for your master's twilight reign.'

'How? Ilumene is the general, the conqueror, not I.'

Rojak reached out a clawed hand, one hooked finger brushing Venn's diamond patchwork sleeve. In this light it looked pitch-black; only under the sun was it apparent that the tunic was composed of varying shades of cloth that had been roughly dyed. 'You are no gen¬eral, but you must conquer. You were the greatest of your people, until you realised the truth behind the holy words given to the clans. Now you must return to them and spread the word of the twilight herald.'

'Will they follow me?'

'The Harlequins have been servants for too long. You must give

them a banner of their own. No more are they the children of Death, so fearful of their father they will not wear his colour. Remove their pottery masks and give them black-iron to wear. Give them a banner, Give them a king.'

If Rojak had wanted to say any more, it was lost. His body could sustain the effort no longer. He appeared to fold inward on himself, sinking further down into his seat.

Venn bent further down, careful not to touch Rojak's skin as he looked the minstrel in the eye, checking that a spark of life still remained before relaxing. He stepped back and gave a short bow, say¬ing, 'As you command, Herald.' He was about to turn away, then he hesitated and bent down to Rojak so he could look the dying minstrel in the eye. 'Your prophecy, the one you put into the dreams of that stable-boy in Embere; it speaks of a woman emerging from the remains of Scree.'

'Treasure and loss in the darkness, from holy hands to a lady of ashes. It is the heart of the "Twilight Reign" prophecy.'

'If you cannot hold them here, how will it come about? They will take the Skull and break the chain of prophecy – if the prophecy is broken, how will Azaer ever walk the Land and become the Saviour?'

'Have faith,' Rojak said, gritting his teeth against the pain. 'They will take no more than I let them take; our lord's reign is coming. Ilumene knows what is to be done; trust him. Now go.'

This time, Venn didn't linger.

The minstrel listened hard for the sound of Venn picking his way out through the broken debris and into the darkness, but the effort defeated him. What sounds he could detect were muted and confus¬ing, as though the bridge between his ears and mind had been washed away. The angry crackle of flames and the uneasy shuffle of the Hounds behind him were all he could make out above the indistinct murmur surrounding him. He could feel the pitiful, maddened figures that could no longer be called human lingering in groups, though a great rolling tide of them had gone north, driven by the firestorms that were even now encircling this place. Those who remained stared with bewildered resentment past the corpses of a hundred of their own at the indistinct form of a God they couldn't manage to hurt.

'What are your orders, minstrel?' To Rojak's weary ears Mistress sounded petulant, and he knew she was trying to conceal her fear. He allowed himself a moment of contempt for mercenaries: when there were glory and riches to be had, they were full of vigour, but put them in a hole and the complaints never ceased. A tiny smile crept onto his lips; soon they wouldn't be able to complain. Soon it wouldn't matter if they did, because there would be no one left to bear.

'Wait,' Rojak whispered, 'wail until they are closer. They must first kill the abbot, and then when his blood is shed, you will fall on them.'

'They've split up,' warned Flitter from her post. 'One group is circling around behind us.'

'Slow them down then,' Rojak sighed, his eyelids sliding shut for a low heartbeats. The lure of whatever lay beyond the sleep of utter ex¬haustion was almost too great to resist; only the touch of his master's ancient breath gently skimming the grazes on his earlobe kept him awake. Azaer was still with him, ever-patient and unrelenting.

He could not rest yet, not quite. There was still his duty to do and he would see it through with his very last breath. It would kill him, hut what was life when compared with changing the face of the Land itself? The price would be paid with a smile on his face, Rojak was certain of that. 'Take two of the Jesters' acolytes and lead the king's men a merry dance.'

'We don't have the numbers to stop them,' said one of the Jesters from somewhere behind him. Rojak summoned the image of the tall grey-skinned man who spoke for all of his brothers, his lips hidden behind the white leather mask that concealed everything beneath the eyes.

'You don't have to.' Rojak could hardly hear the sound of his own voice now; he was not sure if it was a weakness of tongue or ear, or both. 'Draw them in; stall them for as long as you can. It is nearly time.'

Head down and riding low in the saddle, Isak watched the cobbles Hash past as Toramin's hooves crashed down beneath him. The huge horse charged at breakneck speed, the emerald dragons on its flanks slashing and snapping at the air as he began to outstrip his men. The street was a straight run to the south side of Six Temples, where the ground was more open. It was the quickest way for them to get to the Autumn's Arch.

On the right were orderly lines of torches burning around pickets still under construction, and a tall banner above them all bearing the white sword of the Devoted. There were a lot of soldiers formed up into ranks, more than he could count in the few moments he had. They watched him keenly, but he heard no zip of loosed arrows.

Up ahead he saw sudden movement in the darkness that abruptly resolved into Jeil and Tiniq on horseback, riding hard towards him, keeping clear of the rough curve of shrines ringing Six Temples. Both rangers were waving frantically.

Isak swore and wrenched on the reins to pull Toramin up, turning him towards the temples. The way was blocked on the other side; either the Farlan tried to circle around, or they stopped here to fight. Neither option sounded good. He knew many streets were blocked by collapsing buildings, but the closer he got to the Devoted soldiers, the more of them he saw.

Lahk had told him General Gort was leading them, the same man who had so reverently handed Isak his two Crystal Skulls and pledged his allegiance. They were safe enough; any sane man had to be a wel¬come ally in Scree, and hopefully there were more around, enough to ward off even a swollen mob of lunatics.

Toramin resisted as Isak tried to slow him down. They were pounding towards the rubble-lined channels created by the Devoted. Looking back, he saw the others were close behind, spurred on by the sound of pursuit that had been outstripped, but not lost. From behind the Devoted pickets Isak saw units of spearmen spurred into action and realised they weren't sure whether to attack him or not.

Something Carel had told him once suddenly came to Isak: Soldiers are there to obey orders. Half the time they don't know who they're obey¬ing, so when any rich bastard on a horse shouts, you jump to it. In battle you'll find yourself too scared to argue.

'They're coming,' Isak bellowed, standing up in his stirrups, holding Eolis up high for the men to see, 'get to your positions!'

His words had the desired effect. Those who understood Farlan quickly relayed the words to their fellows and the lines became a riot

of sergeants and corporals, all bellowing at once as the work parties ran for their weapons.

Isak lowered his sword and slowed to a canter as he reached the furthest picket. The soldiers watched him suspiciously, but none attacked. He looked around quickly; there were groups of soldiers scattered around the Temple Plaza. They must have decided it was too large to fully defend, so they were choosing their ground instead. There was no guiding intelligence behind the mobs, so when the attack came, it would be in the places of the Devoted's choosing.

'Where's your commander?' Isak snapped at the first Farlan-looking soldier he saw. The man's eyes widened and he turned and shouted lor his lieutenant, who was already hurrying up.

'General Gort is over there, Lord Isak.' The lieutenant pointed towards the Temple of Nartis, where the Devoted's slender banner hung from a long lance. At its base was a group of men all looking towards them. 'He's with his command staff, my Lord.'

Isak started off towards the general as Suzerain Saroc forced his way to Isak's side.

'My Lord, is this quite safe?' Saroc asked quietly.

'I've met Gort before; we can trust him,' Isak said, not looking at the suzerain but past him to where Count Vesna was. 'Vesna, get the men ready to fight.'

'Your Grace,' Saroc insisted, 'we might still be able to punch through to the north and work our way round.'

'Would you bet your life on it?' Isak shook his head. 'I wouldn't. Given the choice between an uncertain run through city streets and a defended position, I've got to take this one. Look at them-' He waved his arm towards the squads of infantry standing ready at the outer ring of shrines and the lancers waiting patiently in the centre of the Temple Plaza. 'There's the best part of a legion here, plus us. And when the mobs went after us, they probably gave Tori his best chance of breaking out with whatever troops he has left.'

'My Lord, we cannot make a stand here out of guilt-'

'That's not what I'm doing,' Isak said sharply. His eyes flashed a warning. 'Take care how far you question my decisions. Young I might he, but Lord of the Farlan I certainly am. I've had enough of running away for one night; here we make our stand.'

I \e dug his spurs into Toramin's flanks and the huge beast jumped forward ahead of the suzerain. Saroc didn't bother to try and make up the ground. The conversation had been ended. Behind them Count Vesna was already shouting out orders, to the Farlan and Devoted alike. The Temple Plaza was some three hundred yards across. Many of the shrines that ringed the six massive temples in the centre were large enough to provide a physical obstacle; others weren't, standing like the broken crenellations of a buried castle wall.

General Gort had put his men to good use. They had salvaged any-thing they could carry or drag from the surrounding ruins. Shattered carts and wagons, scorched roof timbers and even rubble from every non-consecrated structure on the plaza had been used to plug the gaps In the wall. It was certainly too long to defend entirely, but this meant they could pick which fronts to right on. The heavy infantry would act as mobile barricades where required. With a few ranks behind and shields locked together, they would be able to resist a poorly armed attacker, despite being vastly outnumbered. The smaller shrines were clustered together, and much of the work had been to patch the holes to create long walls that the crazed mobs would just go around, meet¬ing armed soldiers at either end.

'Lord Isak,' called General Gort as soon at the distance permitted, 'I'm glad to see you again so soon.'

He hurried over to meet the Farlan lord, his command staff close on his heels. Isak recognised only one of them from his encounter in Llehden, the Chetse general rather predictably carrying an enormous curved axe, but they all followed General Gort's lead and bowed low to the white-eye.

'Let's forget the pleasantries, shall we?' Isak said curtly, even as he slid from his saddle and went to greet the general with palms up¬turned all the same. 'You're about to be attacked on two sides – more than a legion of the screaming bastards were chasing us this way and, according to my scouts, there are more round the other side of the plaza.'

Isak turned to the soldiers behind him as he spoke and saw the two rangers had caught him up. Tiniq offered Isak a quick bow. Both wore only hauberks and skullcaps, but their bows were held ready as usual. Compared to the heavy scales, reinforced oval shields and long spears of the Devoted infantry, they looked under-prepared for the battle ahead.

'My Lord, we couldn't see any safe way through the streets beyond,' Tiniq said. 'A few hundred followed us back here.' He pointed to the eastern edge of the plaza; there were only two real points of access along that stretch and in the faint torch light they could see the lines of infantry strung across the gaps. A company of lancers was already heading over to support them.

Isak nodded. 'Tiniq, can any of you make it alone back to our army lines?' He was thinking of the unnatural members of his personal guard.

The ranger shrugged. 'Perhaps; Shinir's got the best chance, I'd guess.'

'Ask her if she's confident of getting there. I don't want to throw your lives away if there's no chance, not if 1 might manage to contact them myself.' I lis hand went instinctively to the Crystal Skull on his chest. He'd never yet been able to speak into anyone's mind using it, but Carel always said desperation was the best tutor.

The rangers sped off to consult with their comrades.

'Well, General Gort-' Isak started, then stopped suddenly as his brain managed to catch up and take in the magnificent sight of the six temples that gave the area its name. The nearest was Vasle's, all smooth lines and curves, with five interwoven raised stone channels encircling the main structure like miniature aqueducts. He could just see a trickle of movement in the channels; the holy waters hadn't quite dried up. Perhaps the Gods hadn't been entirely driven from the city.

Beyond Vasle's temple were even more impressive structures, vast buildings designed to house many hundreds of worshippers. Looking around at the other temples he could see clearly – the forest of pillars around Nartis' high altar covered by a jagged series of sloping roofs, and the enormous domed Temple of Death – Isak realised that none of them had been damaged at all. He'd seen quite a few fresh scars on the surrounding shrines and minor temples that formed the outer ring, but the painted frescos and walls of the five temples ringing the Temple of Death all looked pristine.

Oh Gods, he thought wryly, unable to stop himself from smiling. The Devoted are here to protect the temples; any fool could have predicted that, and perhaps Azaer did. The temples haven't been touched, but now we're here, who knows?

'He's got a sense of humour at least,' Isak muttered, prompting a curious look from the general, which he waved away. 'No, it's not important right now. Staying alive is all I care about at the moment.'

Gort nodded quickly and something resembling relief crossed the man's face. Isak only vaguely remembered how they had parted the first time they had met, at the old temple of standing stones in Llehden. He'd been exhausted by his struggle with Aryn Bwr and driven to distraction by the bright moonlight of Silvernight, in no condition to hold a conversation, let alone consider the role of the Devoted in what had happened. He had been barely able to stay on his feet, and had to be escorted from the shelter of the trees by Count Vesna. There had been a sudden rush of movement and the sudden wash of moonlight illuminating his silver armour had brought him to his senses barely in time to prevent the milling Devoted soldiers being massacred by the gentry. There'd been no time for farewells, only a hurried escape for both parties and a distant look of what Isak suspected was satisfaction from Ehla, the witch of Llehden, as they clattered past her mouldering home.

Isak shook the images from his mind for now and added, 'So let's not waste time. Most of them will be coming from the east, following us. I'll take charge there, and you keep those lancers watching the rest of the perimeter so we're not taken unawares.'

To his surprise, no one objected to Isak commandeering what was roughly half of their troops, but there wasn't time to wonder whether Gort's past assertion of allegiance held true for them all, or if they just recognised that here and now, Isak was the best man to lead the defence.

Isak remounted and headed back towards the soldiers on the perimeter. A slow, distant murmur from the dark streets beyond their positions swelled into the growl of a thousand twisted, enraged creatures, no longer human.

Poor bastards; driven mad and driven to their deaths, Isak thought, picking up his pace a little. But for what? Just so Azaer can demonstrate his power?

When he reached the tight knots of soldiers he saw relief on the faces of Devoted and Farlan alike. By now they would have all heard stories about him, some true, others not, no doubt. Isak could smell their fear rolling off them in great stinking waves, as obvious as the sweat and leather stench of soldiers campaigning in summer heat. But they saw salvation in his unnatural shining image.

Count Vesna, seasoned campaigner that he was, felt the change too and raised his voice to exploit it. 'Now listen, you bastards!' Vesna roared. 'What's coming isn't going to be pretty. It'll scare you shitless when you see them, but you're not going to move an inch, do you hear me?'

Isak could see that a good proportion of the Devoted understood Farlan from those who nodded agreement. More joined in as whisper¬ing voices translated Vesna's words, many looking at Isak, as if for reassurance. He'd known Lord Bahl for long enough to know his place in this performance. Sitting tall and unknowable atop his enormous warhorse, presenting the impassive front of a divinely blessed warrior, Isak slowly and deliberately hefted Eolis and flicked the glittering sword through a few practise sweeps while his friend spoke. Rogue fingers of lightning danced over His unearthly silver armour.

'Remember,' Vesna continued, dragging their attention back to him, 'all the enemy has is weight of numbers – you've all been in battle before; you know how bloody useless a crowd of untrained troops is. Few of them have weapons, and there's no one leading them, so they'll come straight at us and break themselves on the shield wall.'

He levelled his sword at the main line of defenders, where three ranks were already formed up and set at an angle to deflect the onrush of the enemy into a bottleneck studded with spears. 'Keep the line and trust the men beside you and behind you. The only thing that'll keep us alive tonight is discipline.'

The count forced a small laugh and gestured towards Isak. 'And if you don't believe in discipline, believe in the fact that Isak Stormcaller is standing here with you, and there's no daemon of the Dark Place that would dare cross him!'

There was no time for anything more. With a great roar, the mob broke from the darkness, spilling left and right around black empty buildings into the faint light cast by the torches of the barricades, a thousand screaming figures rushing towards them. Isak felt the soldiers near him waver, then, grimly determined, face forward. He filled himself with raw energy from the Skulls, then jumped down from Toramin to stand with the infantry, his teardrop shield snug on his arm and sparks crackling furiously over his silver-clad body. It re¬assured him as much as those around him.

The rush of power flowing through his body drove away the city's oppressive atmosphere. He stepped forward with a feeling of elation, his sword raised and ready, eager to disperse the ragged masses.

Archers went into action, picking off the quickest. Sir Kelet, taking his job as one of Isak's personal guard deeply seriously, claimed his first three kills before anyone else had fired their first shaft. But the mad-dened hordes appeared oblivious to the flailing bodies and crushed them underfoot.

There were not enough archers among Isak's troops to have any real effect, but the ranks were heartened to see the enemy take the first losses. The Devoted soldiers cheered and began to shout and bel¬low, working themselves up into a killing frenzy. Isak smiled inside his blank helm. That was what they would need, for this would be grim butchery soon enough. The screaming hordes were close now, barely thirty yards way, arms waving wildly, most clad in rags that could no longer be called clothes, charging on regardless of those who tripped and fell, to be stomped to death under their own comrades' feet.

The skirmishers were next to join the fray, sending a sky-full of javelins from the ranks. The onrushing crowd was too tightly bunched for any of them to miss.

The front ranks tensed and drew themselves up, bracing themselves for the impact. Buoyed by the wild, surging magic quivering inside his bones, Isak moved to the head of the bottleneck. Turn weakness to strength, he chanted to himself, the mantra of every successful general. His weakness was that he was a white-eye, vicious, and capable of brutality that would shock most normal men. Here it became a strength, a boost to the troops' morale. The enemy were unarmed and pitiful, but the beast inside him didn't care, it wanted only to kill. The chains of reason were gone.

With a crash, the mob drove into the phalanx. The frontrunners found themselves impaled on lowered spear points, while others re¬bounded and collided with their fellow citizens. More fell, tripping on corpses or unable to keep upright as the angled shields shifted their direction right, towards Isak.

The ranks of Devoted were backed onto a fat pillar three times the high of a man. It had a ledge running around it at shoulder height. As the mob hit the shields, Mariq, Isak's battle-mage, hopped up onto that ledge, a white ball of flame wrapped around his fist, screaming with furious delight.

Isak took his cue and slashed forward with Eolis, letting the energy contained in the Skull fused onto the guard burst out and lash forwards into the onrushing figure. The burst of white flames tore the first man in half and continued on into the woman behind. Flickering tongues flashed out to those around her, blackening their skin and throwing them underneath those pushing up behind. The woman managed to keep upright somehow, but she was shrieking with pain as she was pushed forwards into the bottleneck by the reaching hands behind her. A spear jabbed out and tore through her neck. As she fell, a fine mist of blood hung in the air above her for a fraction of a second then dissipated, spattering those around her.

With Vesna's words still ringing in his head, Isak kept himself in check, cutting down any within reach with brutal ease, but keeping his place in the line. Some wielded long knives or hatchets, but they couldn't get close enough to the line of soldiers to use them; swords or spears cut them down like wheal before a sickle.

The fighting raged on relentlessly. As Isak took down yet another – he'd lost count within minutes – he looked around to see the whole phalanx had each impaled an enemy citizen; there was a moment of strange impasse as neither side could get past the standing wall of dead between them.

Then that moment of hiatus fell apart as one soldier remembered his training and used his shield to bludgeon the dying man off his un-barbed spear. He ran through the next and battle was resumed.

Aside from Mariq, who screamed curses and spells as he threw down ruinous fire to slow the press of bodies, the defenders were near-silent. After the initial attack, the men worked almost as one, like a methodical killing unit, beating forward with their shields, lunging at the next target, disengaging, beating forward again… countless hours of training drills paid off as they stood elbow to elbow in tight formation, ranks closed. Very few were yet injured; those few caught with lucky blows were quickly passed to the back and men from the second rank moved forward into any breach, leaving no gaps for the gibbering wretches to exploit.

Again and again Isak felt sprays of blood patter over his armour, and the air was ripe with the stink of loosened bowels and exposed guts, but they couldn't stop to take stock for even a moment. It was just mindless, mechanical slaughter, but their lives depended on their ability to keep stabbing and slashing and smiting their attackers.

'Press forward on my command,' Vesna bellowed suddenly from somewhere nearby.

Isak felt the infantry tense once more. He felt a surge of pride in these men, strangers drawn from all over the Land to a place none of them cared about, yet they remained disciplined and focused, and when Vesna called 'forward!' they stepped out as one man.

The mob reeled a little, surprised at the sudden movement, but there were still too many of them pushing onto the troops and the only real effect it had was to crowd those at the front even further. Vesna called again, and once more the infantry shoved forward, using their tall iron-bound shields to bludgeon their way through, while the second and third ranks of the line dipped their shoulders and added their weight to the movement.

In the next few moments the front line of the mob, now too restricted by their fellows to do much beyond wail, shuddered as spears stabbed forward into their bellies, but as they crumpled, they were replaced by yet more keen fighters who were crushed against the shieldwall. Isak heard one soldier cry out as the pressure on him from front and back grew too much to bear, but as the man's voice broke the night air he seemed to find extra strength from somewhere and it became a roar of frustration, anger and pain. His comrades took up the call and a great howl ran down the line. In response Vesna demanded another foot of ground, then another, to drive the enemy to the ground where they could be slaughtered like the beasts they were.

'Lord Isak!' cried a voice from somewhere behind him. Isak let the man behind him take his place, yelling wordless sounds of bloodlust and eagerly closing the gap. It gave Isak a moment of space in which to turn and look at the large shrine forty yards from Mariq's perch that marked the other end of their defensive line. The shrine had dozens of narrow archways, piled one on top of another in what had probably been a carefully devised pattern until the people of Scree had defaced it sometime recently.

Perched on top of the shrine, oblivious (or uncaring) of the impiety to whichever God was worshipped there, was Shinir. She pointed to the ground behind the mob with the handle of her lash, then low¬ered it and with a savage flick wrapped the chain around the neck of a woman who'd been trying to scramble up the side of the shrine towards her. With a practised movement, Shinir tugged the lash away and the woman's entire body spasmed before falling limp. That done, Shinir returned her attention to Isak, trying to direct his attention to something behind the mob.

She shouted, 'Cavalry, sir, a good regiment of Farlan!'

Isak grinned and raised his sword high. 'I knew Tori wouldn't die so easily!' he shouted back. The soldiers nearby gave a cheer and pushed forward with renewed vigour as the drum of hooves rose from behind the flailing scrum of crazed citizens.

Isak forced his way to the front of the rank and waded out into the bewildered throng, which had at last recognised the danger. Using both shield and sword to kill anyone near him, Isak began to force his way through the hundreds still left alive. In his wake were the heavily armoured Ghosts of his personal guard, closely followed by the whole line of heavy infantry, driving a bloody path through the mob to the horsemen beyond.

Isak felt a breeze that sent the shadows cavorting all around as the ground grew sticky with blood.