The Twilight herald

CHAPTER 32

Isak gave his head a violent shake, almost dislodging his helm in the process, but failing to remove the sweat dripping into his eye. He blinked again, and hissed in irritation, which did even less.

'My Lord,' called Vesna as he barged his way past a pair of Devoted lancers, 'we can't hold out much longer. We don't have the numbers.'

The mob stood some fifty yards away, and whilst they were hardly human any more, showing no sign of noticing the defending soldiers using their last few arrows, some basic instincts remained and they had retreated momentarily from the slaughter. The central phalanx of heavy infantry faced them, ready to return to the killing at a moment's notice, while the remainder were heaping the enemy corpses high, retrieving what arrows and javelins they could and expanding the barricades protecting them.

Still, Isak knew that Vesna was right. There were simply too many of them, and they wouldn't give up, no matter how many died in the process. The weight of armour and weapons was wearing his men down, and they weren't able to kill the mob fast enough to make enough of a difference.

Isak watched an impatient Sir Kelet wrenching arrows out the hands of every man he could reach, not trusting anyone but himself to make every shot count. The white-eye turned to the loitering mob and saw the arrow slam neatly into the chest of a tall bearded man. At that range the knight had his pick of targets and Isak realised he was killing the loudest and most animated; anything to give them a few moments' rest, no matter that it would never be enough. Anything to slow the frenzied return.

'Pull back to the temples?' Isak suggested quietly. 'We'll only have Tori's cavalry to cover our backs.'

The Temple Plaza was quiet enough that he could hear the zip of Sir Kelet's arrows cutting the air, and the sounds of fighting in other areas, but it was strangely quiet. There were no cries of pain or pleas for help. When a soldier was pulled out of the line or hamstrung by a rusty knife and brought to the ground, he was set upon by the mob like rabid jackals. They didn't stop, even when any sane person could see their victim was dead. Those few soldiers who had been dragged back away from the line and managed to struggle free had still found themselves surrounded, and though they'd killed several of their at¬tackers, they'd all been brought down in the end.

'Could you manage a diversion?' Vesna was as out of breath as the men he now commanded. His helm was scored and battered from rocks and the wild blows that had evaded his shield.

'I'm going to have to, aren't 1? There's no sign of General Lahk and we're not going to last much longer. I can't think of anything that'll do us much good right now, and our friend isn't saying any¬thing.'

Vesna looked confused for a moment before he remembered Aryn Bwr. 'Is there no way you can tell if the other troops are coming? I can't believe the general hasn't ordered a pursuit. That they're not here means they must have met opposition on the way.'

Isak nodded. 'I've tried to reach them, but I can't sense anyone. I don't have the skill to scry for them, but I think I would be able to find Ehla or Fernal if they were anywhere close. There's just this huge black cloud covering the entire city.'

'They must be on their way,' Vesna said confidently, 'so we need to buy ourselves time. If we pull back to the Temple of Death we'll need a few units in place there first. The only thing that's keeping us alive here is a strong line, and we won't have time to reform that before they catch us up.'

'So we need that distraction.' Isak looked over to what he could see of the other pockets of defence. The ring of shrines and rough barricades had held better than they could have expected, but the numbers at each picket were thinning fast.

'You,' he shouted to the nearest of a squad of Farlan cavalry who were positioned ready to ride down any unexpected intruders, 'go to Suzerain Tori and tell the other troops we're pulling back to the temples. He's to cover their retreat and then join us.' Isak saw that the torches set as markers down the line to illuminate the weaker points were burning low. The last thing they needed was a breach to go unseen.

He turned back to the count. 'You're right, Vesna, we can't delay. Take as many as we can spare from here and get ready at the temple for when I come running with the rest.'

Vesna raised a hand to cut Isak off and slammed down the visor on his helm. 'Not yet, they're coming again.'

Isak turned, sword already rising as the soldiers began to shout to each other and the clatter of steel rang out. Those men still shifting bodies dropped them and scrambled back. Isak's eyes ran along the main rank; a slanted line of thirty men pressed tight against each other with spears held above their shoulders, with two more ranks behind them, ready to brace and drive. Tight knots of soldiers with spears and axes flanked them, ready to chop at the edges of the charging mob. They didn't have the numbers to hold line all the way across the gap, but this was the widest break in the ring of shrines.

This time the onrushing mob was tighter, and came on at a slower pace, not getting in each other's way so much. Vesna saw the change and barked an order, relayed by sergeants at the tops of their voices. Immediately the rear ranks of the phalanx stepped forward and turned their shoulders into the back of the man in front, ready to take the impact. From his higher elevation Isak saw the leading attacker brandishing a cleaver above his head. He opened his mouth, ready to shout, when an arrow caught him in the throat and spun him around into the man beside him. They both crashed down and were trampled by their fellows, but it didn't slow the rest. Isak guessed they still num¬bered well over a thousand, even with the many hundreds his men had cut down, and now he saw determination in their eyes instead of the previous wild and all-consuming fury. There was a new focus that chilled him.

A bright light flared in the middle of the crowd. Isak looked over towards Mariq, still perched up on his pillar, and saw the mage with one arm outstretched, his face a picture of concentration. On the ground someone burst into flames, and all those nearby fell away, their hands held up to protect their eyes from the sudden heat.

Isak listened to the mage's laughter echoing over the plaza as he dropped to one knee and placed his hand flat on the stony ground. He knew fire wasn't what they needed here; there were too many attack¬ers to kill each one individually, but he was wearing himself out.

Closing his eyes, Isak took a long slow breath to clear his mind of the sounds of battle. He felt as much as heard the impact of the mob crashing into the phalanx, followed by a collective groan, drowned out by the sounds of sergeants roaring at their men. The ground seemed to react to his touch, a faint tremble rising up from deep below him. A familiar thrill raced through Isak as his senses were absorbed by the immensity of the Land, dulling the aches and cares of his mortal body. For a brief instant he felt his limbs made of rock and earth until his senses reasserted themselves.

He withdrew with a smile on his lips, a faint memory of that greater mass lurking at the back of his mind, reminding him of the battle in Narkang. He'd killed a mage there by doing just that, tearing open a grave under the woman's feet. It took little skill, nothing that needed formal schooling, only an instinctive understanding of the flows of energy running through the Land. What they needed was an obstacle to protect themselves against pursuit – and where a wall would serve, so would a ditch.

Isak reminded himself to breathe again, the needs of the body temporarily forgotten. As his lungs filled, so there was a surge of magic from his Crystal Skulls. Mariq gave a cry of alarm as raw power flooded the area, but Isak ignored him and pushed the surging energy down into the earth. It bucked and kicked like a stubborn colt against his palm as he drove it underneath the straining soldiers. Once he was sure it was under his control, Isak opened his eyes to check on their desperate defence. The mob had spilled over on the right of the line and met Isak's guards, who opened to allow some past before a squad of spearmen plugged the gap. Cut off, the intruders lost their advantage of numbers and were swiftly cut to pieces. The Devoted troops were professional soldiers, but every one of Isak's men had been picked for individual skill as well. A poorly armed and untrained mob was nothing without numbers, and even Major Jachen, no more than a fair swordsman, tore his way through the three men who weni for him.

A ripple of movement caught Isak's eye. The line was weakening; they just didn't have the troops to resist that weight bearing down on their shield-wall and the fighting was so close that many of the front rank couldn't clear the bodies off their spears and had abandoned the weapons completely, keeping their heads low while the second rank backed and stabbed furiously over them. Some of the attackers were quite obviously dead, but there was no place for them to fall. One survivor shrieked up at the grim clouds above, his face obscured by blood after a sword cut had sliced open his brow and a discarded spear in his shoulder. The soldiers ignored him, preferring the noise if it meant he impeded his fellows.

Isak didn't have much time. One by one his exhausted men were falling, and though the damage they were doing would have broken any normal enemy, something unnatural was spurring the mob on. He reached out for the coiled streams of power under their feet and pushed them on towards the heart of the mob. His hand balled into a fist, as though reeling the power out, and he needed his whole enor¬mous bodyweight to anchor it.

The magic fought him every inch of the way, as though desperate to flee from this hallowed ground, but he was too powerful. Once he was sure of the distance, Isak readied himself, visualising what he was about to do. The oversized muscles in his shoulder bunched, driv¬ing his fist down harder, before he managed to wrench it sideways. Stones rasped against the silver plates of his gauntlet, then there was an infernal creak that reverberated around the plaza, followed by a sound of rock splitting.

Isak felt the shock run up his arm an instant before the plaza under his knees shook and the ground tore itself apart.

The cries were distant, dim sounds; all he could focus on were the groaning earth and the rampant energies. Though his eyes were closed, yet Isak had a clear picture of what he'd done in his head. His fist had mapped out the long tear in the ground with the skill of a blind man reading a face. He could sense falling bodies and screaming voices, and the roar of soldiers as they staggered forward to the edge of the trench, driven by their own momentum now the weight of the mob had been jerked away.

Isak forced himself to let go of the magic and stood as it fled away from him and up into the night sky. The rush of departing power made him light-headed and he staggered a few steps before the strength in his legs returned.

'My Lord,' yelled Vesna, 'can you run?' The roaring lion visor gave his friend a chilling look; the gold leaf detail on his black armour melted into the evening dark and only the golden helm stood out. He looked insubstantial, almost ghostly. Not quite a man, that was how Vesna had described how he felt nowadays? Isak's aches and fatigue rushed back all in one go as a pang of guilt brought him back to earth.

Before he could impose order on his thoughts a fresh wave of screams cut through the air as the front rank of soldiers almost collapsed to the ground on the edge of the trench he'd created. The men behind them were quick to drag their comrades back while the third rank set about dispatching the attackers who remained. Isak couldn't see into the trench, but he guessed from the cries that not all of the infantry had made it.

'More blood on my hands,' he muttered dismally to himself before he remembered that they were all waiting for his orders. 'Enough of that, you bastard,' he growled at himself. He couldn't afford guilt now. 'They're all dead if you don't keep going.'

He raised his sword up above his head.

Vesna took that as enough of a reply to his question and roared an order that was echoed by the sergeants nearest him. He ran to Isak's side. 'Isak, what about the others?' he panted, his chest heaving with effort. As he spoke, another order was bellowed and the remains of two regiments of infantry broke, running as fast as they could for the temples.

Isak shook his head. 'They'll have to take their chances; I can't reach that far with any hope of control. I'd only kill the lot of them if I tried.'

More troops broke as the sergeant shouted again and they set off after their comrades towards the heart of the plaza. Only about a company's worth remained besides Isak's guards; the rest were dead on the ground. He could see the writhing mess of bodies inside the trench now. One or two had already begun to clamber up the side of the trench, but Tiniq and Leshi were running along the edge, slashing at the exposed heads as they popped up.

Isak looked at his trench and felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn't deep enough to stop them completely, but it ran the length of the ground they had been defending, and the sudden fall would have broken more than a few ankles. It would serve their purpose well. He just hoped the other pockets of defenders had heard the sound and understood what they had to do.

'Mariq,' Vesna called out to the mage still perched on the shrine. He was still staring down at the chaos on the ground as the deranged citizens stamped down on each other to gel towards their prey. 'Mariq, get down here,' he called again.

He turned to Isak. 'If you give him one of the Skulls, perhaps he can do something. His skill is much greater than yours. It might mean sacrificing himself to save the rest of us.'

Isak opened his mouth to reply, then saw Mariq turn. 'Shit,' he growled, 'he's not going to make it.'

'What do you mean?' Vesna said, looking back. Mariq had stopped, precariously balanced on a statue. The black fletching of an arrow protruded from just above Mariq's hip and his lips were drawn back in a grimace of pain. The mage looked straight at them, about to call out, when a second arrow flashed out of the darkness and struck him between the shoulders, driving into his flesh with so much force that the head reappeared on his back. The mage gave a tortured gasp and flopped forward, a sudden wild burst of crackling energy appearing all around him before it winked out again and he collapsed on the ground.

'Bloody hands of Death,' Isak cried, raising his shield instinctively to cover his face, 'where the hell's that archer? I thought they didn't have any!'

'I don't think they do,' said Vesna, also raising his shield as he went around to Isak's exposed side and shoved the white-eye as hard as he could towards the Temple of Death. 'That's someone else getting involved. Shift yourself.'

Vesna raised his voice, trying to be heard above the clamouring howls of Scree's citizens. 'All of you, go! Form up at the temple en¬trance and hold the line until you're dead!'

Vesna didn't wait for the men to react; Major Jachen had appeared at his side and together they drove Isak on. He stumbled for a few steps but they were relentless and kept pushing him until he managed to break into a run and they found themselves struggling to keep up.

'Can you make another trench at the temple?' Vesna shouted be¬tween great gulps of air.

'I think so,' Isak replied, slowing his pace so he didn't outstrip them both, 'if you don't care about it being pretty.'

'If there's a priest around, he'd have to have real balls to complain,' Vesna laughed.

That sounded strange to Isak, as if the count's laughter had no place here. That was a sound from times past, from quiet, dull days, when he would growl at his companions out of boredom. Only now did Isak realise how much he'd missed it, and how much he'd come to rely on Vesna and Tila to keep him sane in this strange life of privilege. Their laughter provoked his, and that kept the anger at bay. In Scree there had been no place for laughter.

'A trench you'll have, then,' Isak called with a grin neither could see. His pace quickened as though a weight had been lifted, but that didn't stop half of his guards overtaking them a dozen yards later. He glanced back. Still only a handful of people had managed to get out of his trench and were limping after them. The rest of the infantry were close behind him, none as hampered by full armour as Count Vesna. He began to be confident that they'd make it to the temple in time to turn and prepare for the next attack. In the darkness it was hard to see across the plaza but a bobbing torch indicated that at least one of the other defending units had got the message.

Time for a little faith, he thought. Here's as good a place as any, I suppose.

The Temple of Death dominated the plaza, and this whole district of the city. Unlike the one in Tirah, which was larger and more im¬pressive, thanks to all those wealthy citizens trying to buy a favour¬able final judgment, this was not arranged in a cross-shape around the central dome. Here they had foregone the wings tipped with prayer-towers completely, instead building a vast square edifice, with twenty or so slender stained-glass windows occupying the top two-thirds of each side. The temple had to be fifty yards in any direction.

Could they run in and defend it? Isak assumed so, but the temple wasn't entirely made of stone and the walls were still decorated with the summer festival's long yellow drapes. He couldn't remember whether it was in Scree or Helrect that a group of knights had famously been martyred after they sought refuge in a temple, only to perish when their enemies burned the whole place down around their ears. The image haunted him, but they had no choice: they had to fight. The rogue archer who'd killed Mariq had made that decision easier: there was at least one person out there with his wits about him, and plenty of torches had been abandoned at the pickets.

He reached the temple and turned the corner to the western side and the wide entrance – another reason not to hide inside: Death's house had no door, for no one was to be kept out.

They would have to fight, no matter what.

'Where in the Dark Place are the rest?' Isak yelled as he reached the temple entrance. He saw far too few troops for his liking. His heart sank as he saw only the wide frame of General Chotech among the Devoted, still with his massive axe resting on his shoulder, but now as tattered and blood-stained as a Chetse warrior was supposed to look. There was no sign of General Gort or the three hundred soldiers he'd had with him. Suzerain Fordan took care to salute his lord with the warhammer he carried, the same weapon his father had been renowned for using. Isak returned the gesture and muttered a quick prayer that he wouldn't watch this Suzerain Fordan die as he had the last.

'Anyone not here is dead, or as good as,' said Vesna as he hurried up beside Isak.

Jachen was with him, looking considerably less fatigued in his hauberk and open-faced helm. He looked around. 'No more than a division here,' he commented grimly.

Vesna slid up his face-plate and did his own assessment, nodding agreement after a few heartbeats.

'So we've lost two-thirds of our men,' Isak said, running to the corner of the temple where an empty waist-high pedestal stood. He pushed a soldier out of his path so he could hop up onto the pedestal and look down on the paved ground in front of the Temple of Death. The entrance faced due east, to catch the dawn light. Isak raised an arm towards Nartis' pillared temple to the north-east. If he could drive a trench in that direction it would cut down the ground they had to defend, without trapping them inside the temple.

'Vesna, get these fucking men ordered and out of my way,' he roared.

The sudden bellow caused most of the soldiers to jump and hurry out of the line he was drawing in his head, but some went the wrong way and Vesna had to shout himself hoarse to draw them back. Rapid orders followed, so quickly that Isak hardly made out the words, but these men were professional soldiers; they recognised an order to form ranks, no matter what language it was given in. A good number had already congregated by Count Vesna and their comrades rushed to follow.

Around the corner, their pursuers were only fifty yards behind, once again in a big, formless mass, though they weren't running but advancing by fits and starts, the leading figures casting glances back at those behind and wailing to be overtaken, as though unsure about what they were doing. The imposing presence of the temples had slowed them, but he doubted anything would stop the mob. Isak set the closest alight and saw the man's ragged clothes burst into a bright flare of light, but he didn't wait to see whether it impeded the rest…

As the last of the infantry took up their positions and the cavalry abandoned their horses at the Temple of Nartis, Isak ran down the line he'd pictured in his mind until he was almost thirty yards along. He knelt again and reached out to the Skull fused to his cuirass. This time the magic was eager to serve as it coursed through his body and into the ground. He hardly had to command it before the vast energy running through him started to shake and twist the flagstones there.

A gigantic crash rang out across the plaza as the earth was ripped open, this time with terrifying ease. It drowned out all other sounds, and as a black gulf appeared in the ground, Isak was thrown backwards by the power. He lay sprawled on his back for a few moments while the ground continued to shake. Blinking, he looked up at the night sky. Up above, the clouds glowed red as they reflected the fires raging through the city, but in a break Isak saw half a dozen stars, shining bravely.

'I hope you really are my bloody ancestors looking down on me,' he muttered with a manic chuckle as the magic receded from his tingling limbs. He looked out over his feet at the jagged rip in the ground. It was wide; they'd have a problem jumping it, but it wasn't impossible. The paving slab by his right heel upended suddenly, pitching down into the trench to crash onto the stony floor. It was followed by the patter of loose soil.

Isak jumped up and flexed his shoulders. He raised Eolis to the skies, his eyes still fixed on the faint pinpricks high above. 'Now's the time to do something more than watch, you bastards,' he called as the mob rounded the corner of the temple. Behind him he heard soldiers run up alongside and saw Jachen appear with the remaining Farlan troops. Suzerain Tori took up a position on his left-hand side and Shinir appeared on his right, sparing the time to scowl at the big white-eye. She had looped her flail around her body to keep it out of the way and now brandished a plain round shield taken from a fallen lancer. She had perfected a very simple technique now taken up by many others: she stepped straight into an attacker and smashed the steel boss of her shield into their face, then chopped into their neck with her khopesh.

He looked again at his trench. It was deeper than the last, a good ten feet down, so those who failed to bridge the gap were likely to fall and break bones. Getting out would be a damn sight more difficult too. The defenders were formed into a rough triangle, their backs to the entrance, the three wide arches that spanned the front of the temple.

Isak's trench cut across the plaza towards the Temple of Nartis; the Farlan defended that while the Devoted had strung their shield-wall across the remaining ground. General Chotech had taken a position at the very tip of the triangle, towards the end of the trench, standing over a burly infantryman who knelt with his shield braced on the ground to act as an obstacle while the general swung the axe over him. It would be tiring work, even for a Chetse, but this was what they were reduced to.

He watched Vesna overseeing the shield-wall as the first few citizens loitered in the gloom.

'What are they waiting for?' shouted General Chotech.

'Who cares? Vesna replied. 'Perhaps they're nervous of the temples – whatever it is, it's slowed them down and buys us more time.'

The crowd began to thicken, ragged figures massing with whatever weapons they had found. Some had only discarded shields from the fallen infantry, but that didn't matter much. Weapons blunted quickly in battle and a drawn-out fight invariably ended up as a bludgeoning match, where steel-reinforced shields were almost as good as swords. A drawn-out bellow dragged Isak's attention back to the side he was defending and a few score of the swifter members of the mob led the charge towards him. Some carried the torches the defenders had abandoned at the pickets and Isak felt a chill at how close he'd come to ordering his men inside.

Leading the way was a young man with long gangly arms flailing wildly. He wore only a torn pair of trousers and waved a long cook's knife wildly above his head. His face was grossly contorted by hatred, and so focused was he on Isak that he didn't even notice the trench on the ground. Even as he pitched downwards, he was slashing for the white-eye. Isak heard the sickening crunch as the youth's face hit the far side of the trench and snapped his neck back, but he was watching those still coming on.

The first misjudged his jump. He got one knee onto firm ground, then Jachen slashed open his face and sent him falling back. After

that they came en masse, and the soldiers found themselves brutally repelling the leaping attackers any way they could. Isak had it easier than most, for he had the weight to stand almost on the very edge of the trench and use his shield to swat away those that jumped towards him. One by one they fell into the trench, and the rush towards the defenders slowed.

'This ditch isn't deep enough,' Jachen yelled, crouching down to stab a man in the throat as his fingertips reached up to try and pull himself up.

'If you think you could do any better, feel free to try,' Isak shouted, hacking inelegantly down into a woman's shoulder as she leapt empty-handed, clawed hands reaching for him. The magical edge sheared through her torso with horrific ease and as the two halves fell into the trench a great spray of blood spattered over Isak and the soldiers on either side.

'Piss on you,' roared Shinir, blinking hard through the blood cover¬ing her face, 'that's in my damned eyes!'

'Private!' Jachen shouted. 'Keep that mouth shut! My Lord, this trench isn't going to be enough; look at them.'

Isak had to agree. Now too many were slowing their pace and will¬ingly dropping into the trench, clambering over their fallen and scrab¬bling at the crumbling edge for enough purchase to pull themselves up. The number of corpses down there would soon start to count in their favour.

From the noise he realised they were fighting on both fronts now. The mob had grown again, and fatigue hadn't robbed them of any ferocity; his soldiers had been fighting for hours against enemies who didn't care about their own safety.

'This isn't warfare,' he said aloud. 'In battle you know the enemy's got some sort of sense left.'

'Bugger that,' Jachen said, 'this is a race of numbers, and we're going to lose unless we get help. The damn trench is filling up wilh dead and that's got to be more than a legion queuing up to walk across.'

Isak took a moment to watch the crowd of spitting and wailing citizens only half a dozen yards away. This was the first time he'd stopped to look at them closely. They were starved and filthy, some trembling and unsteady as they tumbled into the trench towards him. They looked like the sort of people a duke should be protecting, not desperately thinking of ways to slaughter them.

'There's more of them,' Jachen continued, 'the fighting must have drawn others.' Isak realised the commander of his guard was right as he looked over the heads of the nearest. The plaza was filling up, a bobbing carpet of heads spreading back to the break in the ring of shrines they had been defending only minutes before.

'Then we really do need help,' he admitted. 'Whoever shot Mariq must have realised that as this became more desperate, I'd likely give him one of the Skulls. The effort would have killed him pretty quickly, but Mariq had more skill than I ever will; perhaps enough to burn us a path through this lot.'

'What help are we going to get out here?' Jachen puffed, his sword strokes laboured as he smashed away yet another salvaged spear and stabbed his attacker in the neck.

Isak stopped still for a moment, leaving Suzerain Tori to chop through the wrist of man with a cleaver as Isak's feet. The suzerain was puffing hard too, sounding like he was feeling his age at last, but he didn't hesitate to redouble his efforts to give Isak a moment to think. Tori had fought alongside Lord Bahl often enough to know there was good cause.

Help? Not from the ancestors above us, he though with a growing sense that an idea was looming. 'Of course, bloody ancestors,' Isak cried suddenly.

'What are you talking about?' Jachen said.

'What do we have here?' Isak asked before answering his own ques¬tion. 'Nothing, that's what; only the souls of ancestors in the sky and six empty temples.'

'I hope you've got a point here.' Jachen sounded more than a little concerned that Isak had gone insane.

'More than that,' Isak laughed. He saw the ranger, Jeil, on Jachen's other side and raised his voice. 'Jeil, do you remember when we got to Saroc and I had a look around to see if I could find something to help us?'

'I-' The ranger looked confused for a moment before understanding dawned. 'That water elemental you woke? My Lord, you do remember that it attacked us, don't you?'

'A minor detail,' Isak said cheerfully.

'Lord Isak,' interjected Jachen, 'I recognise that tone of voice by now; it means you're going to do something to worry me.'

Isak clapped him on the shoulder, causing Jachen to wince at the unintended force, then paused to drive back two attackers scrambling over the edge of the trench. 'It looks like I chose right, then,' he said in a more serious tone. 'What I need from a commander is for him to worry when I forget to.'

Isak reached into both of his Crystal Skulls and his smile broadened as sizzling trails of energy began to snake over the surface of his armour. The air around him shimmered. 'What you get in temples is Gods,' he explained, as though to a room of schoolchildren. 'Every temple and shrine is touched by the God when it's consecrated – that's what consecrated ground is. While the Gods might have been driven out of the city, some trace of that spirit must remain.'

He took a step back from the line and let two men fill his space. Behind him, Vesna ordered a company of Devoted troops to join the Farlan. The trench was filling fast, though blood and gore had made the edge treacherous. The stink of loosed bowels and perforated intes¬tines filled the air, which shook to the sound of wordless shrieks.

Isak tried to clear his mind, ignoring the fearful shrieks echoing up from the writhing mass below him. He tried to black out the glee on the faces of those jumping deliberately down as the screams intensified, closing his eyes and focusing on the magic surrounding him, finding a selfish refuge there. He wasn't sure exactly what he was doing now, but he didn't want to see what would happen if he made a mistake.

'My Lord, what are you doing?' cried Jachen, butting an attacker with his steel helm as the man grabbed his sword arm. They were holding the line, but it was starting to get desperate. The losses at the other pickets had been too great.

'I've woken one God here this evening by mistake,' Isak muttered, trying to gain a grip over the magic flooding his body: he needed the energies to be settled, not raging. 'Here, in their own temples, no minstrel's magic will stop them incarnating.'

'Them?' Jachen almost shrieked. 'You're summoning Death and Nartis? Oh Gods, you're going to summon Karkarn?'

'Let's see what we can see,' Isak murmured and turned the magic inward to seep into his soul, drawing his senses out into the hot night air. He found his bearings as the confusion of battle and pain cut through him, stirring strange eddies in the drifting currents above. He could feel the warmth of latent power coming from the temples, the familiar call from Nartis' house only a few-score yards away, though overshadowed by the looming shadow of Death, so close behind. After a moment he heard quiet voices echoing through the dark, then the scraping of knives and a low, bestial pant, just on the edge of hear¬ing.

A moment of doubt made him pause as he recalled waking the Malviebrat in Saroc. Adding to their troubles really would be the final nail in their coffin. If, somehow, he brought something other than his intended target into being, there would be no going back.

He held his breath and listened, reaching out as far as he could with his mind to whatever lingered on that plain. A dark cloud hung over everything, and he had to push at every step, trying to find a way around the dulling effect of the minstrel's now-visible magic. After another few dozen heartbeats, Isak made out a number of indistinct presences nearby. He couldn't distinguish them, though he knew they were separate entities. Five stood closest to him. He felt their eyes on him as, lingering at the edges of his perception, they became aware of his questing tendrils of power.

Now they all turned towards him, and there was a taste to the air that sent a shiver through his body, a strange mix of anticipation and bloodlust that felt far from divine. Isak didn't know what else there was to be found here – on sanctified ground they surely couldn't be daemons… but he could sense a gratified ache coming from the beings watching over the slaughter. He wasn't reassured, but now there was no going back.

As he hesitated, pondering the consequences, he got more from his surroundings: the all-consuming hatred radiating out from the horde about to overrun the dwindling lines of soldiers, and a growing terror even closer to hand. Screams cut through the fog of his mind and reverberated in his very bones as the fear of his comrades – his friends – sliced into his skin like hot knives.

He could no longer delay. Whatever the result, he had to try and save them.

Consequences mean nothing if you're dead, said a soldier whose face he couldn't remember, a memory from years back. Carel? It was the sort of thing the veteran would have said in a maudlin moment before stomping away to his bed, but when had it been? A second wave of screams, louder and more insistent, forced Isak to put the matter from his mind. There would be time to remember, if he lived through the next hour, and to do that he needed whatever fell creatures remained in this place, watching and waiting.

He reached out to the shadowy figures and touched them with his mind. At first they recoiled, rising up towards the clouds, then he opened the Skulls and directed their vast power towards the spirits.

Dear Gods, let my ignorance not prove the death of others, he prayed silently.

The entities drew closer, grasping fingers reaching greedily for the roaring streams of power. Isak gasped and shuddered at the searing pain of so much magic rushing through his body, suddenly fearful as lines of heat ran down his arms and legs. Like claws cutting to the bone, the energies from both Skulls took a savage grip and Isak felt a distant cry ring out in the night. The scar on his chest burned like a flame and he realised Xeliath, wherever she was, was pained by what he'd done. Isak's fear deepened.

His lips were cracked and blistered; they tore open, spilling blood down his chin. Only then did he realise he'd commingled Xeliath's scream with his own. Somewhere he heard Aryn Bwr cry out, and felt his hand tighten around the hilt of Eolis. The twitch of movement was enough to awaken him to what was happening, reminding him of his struggle on Silvernight, when the last king tried to take his soul.

Isak drew in a huge gulp of air, and as his lungs filled, he felt ener¬gised. There was no time now for elegance, so instead he used every ounce of strength in his body to wrench the fat, pulsating streams of magic away from the suckling entities, slowing the flow of power. His mind fell back into his body in time to feel himself collapsing back onto the unyielding stone, but in that moment he felt a wash of relief as the burning pain of rampant magic fled from his body.

His eyes flashed open, but for a moment all Isak could see was a dark blur up above and faint bursts of light as his head smashed back against the ground. Lungs burning, he took a raspy gulp of air and flailed wildly until he was sitting upright again. He tried to focus his vision until he could blurrily make out soldiers jumping back from trench.

'Piss and daemons, what in the name of Death are those?' yelled a voice nearby. A name, Jachen? It hovered at the back of Isak's mind as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. Jachen, Major Jachen: as awareness flooded back, he scrambled to his feet, cough¬ing and heaving and blinking away the tears that were obscuring his sight.

More voices took up the call and a fresh wave of horror struck Isak, who reeled until he was steadied by an outstretched hand: the ranger, Tiniq, bloodied and battered, yet strangely more alive and potent than Isak had ever seen him before.

'What have you done?' the ranger snapped, his white teeth flashing in the dark. Before Isak could answer, a second shout rose above the clamouring voices of the soldiers.

'Merciful Death, that's the Burning Man!' cried one man in terror. Isak and Tiniq could see the reason for the man's fear: in the heart of the attacking mob stood a figure twice the height of a normal man, wreathed in flame with his hands outstretched, as though blessing the scrabbling citizens around him. Isak remembered a shrine they had passed with the Burning Man's face painted on one of the frescos. He wore an expression of sheer agony as fire curled around his head. Isak could see nothing of the figure before him beyond the dancing yellow flames that soon began to spread out to the people around it.

'Look, with the sword,' Jachen called, pointing with his own blade at another newcomer to the mob. This one was as tall as the Burning Man, but wearing armour and carrying an enormous sword, skin shin¬ing with an inner white light, illuminating gaunt features and grey matted hair falling about the shoulders.

Isak froze; this one too he recognised from the walls of a shrine – probably depicted in the temple behind him as well, standing guard to one side of the entrance.

Jachen found his voice again, almost sobbing with fear as he named the newcomers. 'The Soldier- And oh Gods, the Wither Queen! Look, they're all here – all of them, the Headsman and Great Wolf… the Reapers have come for us!'

Isak grabbed Tiniq by the shoulder and hauled himself upright, almost driving the ranger to the ground as he did so. Forcing his parched lips apart, he shouted at the top of his voice, 'Hold your positions; keep the line!'

'My Lord?' said Jachen in disbelief, staring at Isak as though he too was a monstrous figure from the Land's darkest myths. 'You summoned the Reapers?'

Isak hesitated. I think so – it must have been me, but how was I meant to know? 'I summoned help,' he replied flatly.

'The Reapers?' Jachen yelled. 'The five most violent of Death's Aspects?'

Isak turned back the mob where a panic-stricken howl of fear was spreading through their disordered number. The Reapers; you should have known. Of all the Aspects of the Gods likely to be in attendance as the last people in this city prepare to die, which did you expect to be close enough to incarnate? 'We're defending the temples; they are Aspects of Death,' he said calmly.

'They're the Reapers,' Jachen wailed, almost incoherent in his fear. 'They kill anything and anyone! The Wither Queen doesn't stop to check whether her victims prayed to her that morning!'

Isak took a step towards him, Eolis raised and blazing with a fierce light as crackling cords of energy flashed into existence, sizzling from his wrist to the tip of the blade. 'Hold your ground,' he repeated, fight¬ing to raise his voice above the frantic screams ringing out all around them. 'If they want to take one of mine, they'll have to put me down first.'

'You're going to fight the Reapers?'

Isak felt the familiar growl of anger rising inside. 'I'll not bloody stand aside and watch if they turn on us. Aspects of Death or not, they'll fear the Skulls I carry, or I'll make them do so quickly enough.'

The mobs were in disarray; some were still trying to attack, oblivi¬ous in their ferocity, while others were trying to flee the Temple Plaza. Most just stood and stared.

Isak found himself doing the same as a prickling sensation of awe washed over him. Stalking like daemons through a field of wheat, the five Aspects of Death tore a swift and bloody swathe through Scree's remaining citizens. The Soldier and Headsman were cutting and hacking with a quiet, grim purpose. The Burning Man and the Wither Queen annihilated with a touch of their long, skeletal fingers. The Great Wolf bounded to and fro, its back strangely hunched, more like a jackal's, and lacking the languid grace of a real wolf. Despite the clamour, Isak could still hear its excited snorts as it chased down those who tried to flee.

The air was filled with people shrieking, screaming, crying, wailing, and there, somewhere on the edge of hearing, Isak thought he heard an echoing laughter. For a moment he thought it had come from inside the temple, as though Death himself was revelling in the most unpleasant sides of himself, but everyone knew Death was impassive. Pleasure didn't come into this, it was just the act itself.

Isak chided himself at being distracted and returned his attention to the terrible slaughter taking place. Within minutes the Reapers had killed more than his men had managed to take down all evening, but in this Gods-inflicted chaos is was even less of a battle than it had originally been. This wasn't a desperate fight for survival, it wasn't the grim repetition of deflect, strike, kill, each soldier trying to control the growing fear inside him as they faced an unstoppable horde. This was different, this was murder, out-and-out butchery, and Isak couldn't quite believe it of Gods. He could see his own revulsion mirrored in the faces of the men around him.

And in an instant, the folk of Scree returned to their senses and a great wave of pleas and prayers emanated from the mob.

An icy hand gripped Isak's heart. The minstrel's magic had been undone, and the savage desires of Gods still gorged upon the minstrel's victims, thanks to the power he gave them.

The old men of the wagon-train, where Isak had grown up, always said the Reapers taught a man what he was truly afraid of. Take any¬one into a Temple of Death and look at the painted images: everyone, man, woman and child, would be able to pick out that one they feared more than the others. Isak had always believed the Burning Man was his; the idea of a man aflame made his skin crawl, but as he looked into the pitiless face of the Wither Queen, even his powerful limbs trembled. The other Reapers destroyed indiscriminately, but she seemed to take more than just life. As she caressed each terrified face with her long jagged fingernails, she looked into their eyes, and it was as if her dead-grey eyes tore the souls from each mortal body, as her loathsome diseases ravaged their flesh in a heartbeat. She bestowed upon her chosen pain of years in an instant, condensed and purified into the purest agony, and it was that pain that killed her victims as much as the diseases themselves.

Isak's hand shook as the Wither Queen cast her gaze on a crowd of petrified, whimpering civilians. He wanted to howl with fear and guilt. He staggered a few steps back and turned to look at the temple. It was still and silent, the only light within coming from the two torches they had set by the arched entrance that now cast deep shadows over the interior. The high altar at the centre of the building was a solid block of darkness, untouched by the torchlight.

But I never meant this, he though through a daze as the surging energies from the Skulls howled in his ears and begged to be used. How has this happened? These men have given their lives to defend what, a grand shrine to these daemons! They will have hern told it was their duty

to defend the glory of their Gods, and now they see the monsters their Gods really are- Or was this truly my fault? Did I do something to make them this way? Did they take something from me when they took the strength to incarnate?

'Stop them,' said a voice in his head. The scar blazed hot on his chest as he felt Xeliath's presence on his shoulder. 'They are here at your invitation, they are yours to command.'

'Xeliath?' Isak said aloud, before realising he had no need. 'Where are you? Can you see them?'

'I see them,' she said, her voice all grim purpose in his head. Her resolve calmed Isak and helped clear his mind. 'They are feeding off your strength, the power in the Skulls and the fear of your men,' She gave a small gasp. 'Isak, there's so much energy flowing through you – they're feeding off you like leeches, and as it flowed over your scar, that was enough to drag me here too.'

'Can you help me?'

'1 am miles away; we're guests in a monastery outside your city of Perlir. This fight is yours alone; Gods do not dream, I cannot touch them.'

'How do I fight them?'

'Face them down and cut the flow of strength. I can sense some strange flavour in the air around you. Whatever it is, it is anathema to them, 1 think. Without your help they will run like whipped dogs.' A suddenly note of urgency entered her voice and jerked Isak back to action. In the distance the screams continued.

Isak grabbed Eolis and used the sword to hold himself upright as the strength left his legs. He was intoxicated by the taste of magic filling his head.

'My Lord,' cried Count Vesna, seeing Isak totter. He ran over and grabbed an arm.

Isak looked up drunkenly into his friend's face. Vesna had removed his helm and Isak could see the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Tears of what, fear? Exhaustion? Or maybe loss for the man he'd once been…

And yet still he runs to you, still he is there to hold you before you fall, this man who thinks he's failed you. He casts off his own fear before he lets you fall, so who is it who has failed his friend?

'Hold the line,' Isak whispered, clutching Vesna's shoulder for sup¬port, willing his strength to return. Vesna, there for him despite his own troubles, and so many others: they needed a strong lord, or they were all dead.

Get up, you bastard, Isak screamed in his own mind, get up and face them, or it won't just be these men here who die. What about the rest of your troops in the city? What about the rest of the Farlan? Do you think Azaer will stop here? No, he'll continue until Tirah is as much of a husk as Scree.

'Hold the line?' Vesna said, looking up to check the wedge of sur¬viving soldiers. Some had sunk to their knees, all were too tired to speak. Only then did the count see the men wavering – fear of what was happening ruling them rather than mere exhaustion – and he immediately started to bellow orders.

Isak looked around. The mobs had stopped attacking them now, and the exhausted troops looked ready to collapse. Only the sight of the Reapers, still wreaking havoc amongst the people of Scree, stopped them from all crumpling to the ground. Vesna's orders raised heads and steadied a few, and as the remaining sergeants took up the shout, Isak watched their resolve return. He knew it was crucial they stayed in line, for if they ran, the Reapers would slaughter them too. Their only chance was to remain apart from the fleeing mob, separate and in control.

'They're running,' Jachen said dully. His sword hung limp in his hand, tip trailing along the ground. It didn't look like he'd have the strength to swing it again this night; Isak was ready to pray that none of them would have to.

'Wouldn't you?'

'Shouldn't we?' Jachen asked. 'No Aspect of Death is noted for its pity, but these-'

'If you run, you'll die,' Isak said with certainty.

'Then what? We stand here and let them slaughter us?' Vesna was as tired as the rest, and hadn't the strength to protest with vehemence. He sounded resigned, as though he knew this was what Fate had in store for him.

'Not if I've got anything to say about it.'

'You can't fight the Reapers.'

'Why not?' Isak stood straight again, no longer needing the man's shoulder for support. 'There was a war once, remember? Aryn Bwr proved Gods could be killed, and he gave the Land the means to do so. They'll remember; they fought at the Last Battle.'

A collective gasp from the men behind them interrupted them and Isak wheeled around to see the Soldier, sword low and head dipped,

advancing towards them. His face was veiled by his lank grey hair, but Isak could see the Aspect was carefully scrutinising the mixed Farlan and Devoted soldiers.

The Aspect wore a patchwork of armour, mismatched steel plates and scraps of chain mail hanging off his emaciated frame. His sword arm – the left, which struck Isak as strange, since most left-handed soldiers were forced to use their right – was bare, apart from a steel band around the wrist. The Soldier's skin looked as pale as a corpse's, and as wasted as one of the Wither Queen's victims, hardly strong enough to wield the long leaf-bladed sword with which he had helped to massacre the mob.

The other Reapers were still dispatching those citizens left in the plaza, chasing them down with unexpected swiftness. The Soldier was oblivious to this as he approached the temple over a carpet of carnage, the bones of the slain snapping under his weight.

'Keep your positions,' Isak said calmly. He didn't bother to raise his voice; an unnatural hush had fallen over the soldiers and every man could hear his words.

'It feeds on the fear they feel,' Xeliath reminded him, 'but remember, you look like a God to them; show no fear and you weaken it.'

With a deliberately unhurried movement, Isak pushed his way past his Farlan guards and jumped over the trench he'd carved in the Temple Plaza. He kept his eyes on the Soldier, like a sane man does on a dangerous dog. Break eye contact and you lose what little control you might have; despite centuries of breeding, it remembers that it was once a wolf.

'My Lord,' said Vesna quietly. Isak raised his shield hand in warn¬ing and the count fell silent. Whatever Vesna's objection, it was past the point of making. He'd only intervene now if he thought Isak was in danger – and damn him, he would, as well: Isak had no doubt that Vesna, broken spirit or not, would charge headlong to attack the Aspect of Death if his lord was threatened.

Is this what you do to men? Isak thought as he approached the Soldier. He could feel the pull of its presence now, the aura that Lord Bahl had worn like a mantle of authority, the glamour that Morghien had spoken of, enough to cow men into obedience. Even as he forced himself to face up to the minor God, Isak found himself having to fight the urge to kneel, to lower his gaze and make obeisance, despite the horror he fell in his heart.

Is this how the rest of them see you? Isak asked himself, remember¬ing the battle outside Lomin, calling the storm down onto himself in Narkang, and the images seared into his memory.

This close, he could see that the Soldier was covered with blood; his boots were soaked through and the battered blade he dragged over the ground, careless of its edge, was covered in filth and gore. Isak almost gave up when he realised how much taller than he the Soldier was, but pride kept him going. He wouldn't falter now; he would meet these consequences head-on.

'Give him to me,' the Soldier growled to Isak when they were no more than four yards apart. The white-eye looked confused for a moment, then noted the Soldier's intent expression, as though the Aspect was looking straight through his flesh and into Isak's soul. As if to confirm Isak's suspicion, the Soldier sniffed the air cautiously, savouring the scent on the breeze that drifted towards him past Isak's shoulder. At the back of his mind, something stirred.

'He's mine,' Isak said simply. He watched the Aspect's dead eyes for any sign of emotion, but there was nothing.

'Give him to me,' the Soldier repeated. 'His soul is forfeit to Lord Death. We have hunted him for millennia, and no whelp will deny me this prize.' The Aspect looked past Isak, at the terrified soldiers behind him. A thin smile appeared on its lips. 'Give him to me or they will all die.'

Isak felt a rising surge of anger, and a sudden contempt. Showing your hand so easily? Threatening them just shows me you're afraid, other¬wise why would you bother? You really are nothing more than Death's cruel shadow, and you're frightened of me.

'They will not die and nor will I give you my chained dragon. You have done my bidding here, and just as I summoned you, I now dismiss you. Your services are no longer needed.'

'I am your God,' the Aspect hissed, 'and you do not dismiss me.'

'My God?' Isak echoed.

He took a step forward and carefully removed his helm and hood. There was nothing he needed to hide. The Soldier stayed still.

'Nartis is my God, and like the one you serve, he does not com¬mand me. He made me; he gave me my strength and my gifts, but that doesn't mean he owns me. With these gifts I act as 1 see fit, and that includes wielding weapons, of which the Reapers were not the first.'

'Do you think you can deny me?' The' Soldier's fury was obvious now, which only confirmed Isak's hunch. 'I am a part of you; I am the incarnation of a white-eye's anger-'

'Then you are a part of me,' Isak snapped, 'but you are not all thai I am, and 1 command the anger inside me. My soul may be stained, 1 may have been born a creature of anger, but I will not let that make me a monster like you and yours.'

Carefully, deliberately, Isak sheathed Eolis and touched his fingers to his chest. 'I gave you the power to be here,' he said in a controlled voice. His fingers warmed as they rested on the Skull, the magic within a living thing. 'And that power is mine to retrieve when I choose.'

With a thought Isak took hold of the energy gushing out from the Skulls into the plaza beyond. The magic kicked and writhed under his grip, desperate to keep flowing, and for a moment he wondered if he was strong enough to control that vast stream of power. Could he dam it so that these monsters could no longer feed from it? His self-doubt disappeared in a flash as he realised Aryn Bwr was there, guiding his movements. He could feel the last king's desperation to escape that cruel, hungry gaze and allowed the dead spirit to steer his thoughts and cut the flow as easily as drawing a curtain.

To his immense satisfaction, Isak saw a flicker of surprise cross the Soldier's face, then the Aspect vanished, leaving only a set of bloody boot prints on the stone ground. In the distance he sensed the other Reapers also disappearing from the city. A smile almost crossed his face, but he caught it in time and made sure he was expressionless when he turned back to the living soldiers outside the temple.

He could see no personal consequence of summoning the Reapers; it hadn't marked his skin, like calling the storm had… but the dead lay in every direction. This was neither the place nor the time to feel pleased with himself.

Crossing the trench once more, he was greeted with awe-struck relief. Vesna and Jachen wore smiles, but Isak didn't need to heal them speak to know the smiles were forced. They'd just watched him face down the Reapers; it was too early for either to feel anything more than astonishment that they were still alive.

'My Lord,' Vesna croaked, 'you continue to amaze me.'

'Didn't expect that, eh?' Isak coughed, the exhaustion oi the evening's fighting catching up with him.

'Could anyone have expected that?' Jachen wondered. He had already removed his helm and now he started on his hauberk. His face was covered with sweat, his hair plastered flat.

'You'll get used to it,' Isak said with a smile, and made his way to the temple steps where he sank down gratefully down.

'Are you well?' Vesna asked cautiously.

'Just tired – and thirsty, now that I think of it.'

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Vesna was shout¬ing orders and what remained of the Farlan cavalry staggered for the horses still cowering in the forest of pillars of the Temple of Nartis. The animals had been ignored by both the mobs and the Reapers and though they were still unsettled by the stench of blood and guts, they were unharmed. It wasn't long before the first of the cavalry were heading towards the Temple of Vasle, where the waters still ran. If any of the Devoted objected to the sacrilege, they had the good sense to keep quiet.

The rest of the soldiers had dropped to the ground too, following their lord's lead. Vesna opened his mouth to bawl them upright again, but found himself sinking down almost without thought. Soon all the survivors were sprawled on the ground where just a short time before they'd expected to be ripped to pieces by the ravening hordes. None of them had the strength to speak. Those with pipes intact fumbled with tobacco pouches, sharing with those who had none. A scar-faced man with greying hair found it too much effort to walk the few paces back after lighting his pipe from the torch at the entrance of the temple, slumping instead on the steps a few feet from Isak. He started to puff away, then, almost shyly, offered the pipe to Isak.

The tobacco was typical soldier's rubbish; foul, black and bitter, and under normal circumstances Isak would have cursed at the evil taste, but these were not normal circumstances and he found himself almost moaning with pleasure. If it took away the stench of the dead, of blood and shit and his own rank sweat, even for a few brief moments, then it was a blessing worthy of the temples they had defended.

For these few hundred souls sitting before the Temple of Death, amidst a slaughter the like of which none had ever seen before, the scent of bitter tobacco on the breeze would, for the rest of their lives, remain with them as something blessed.

After a few minutes, they heard a sound in the distance. Heads all around were raised as they recognised shod hooves on cobbles. Somehow, after all the chaos surrounding them, it contrived to sound near and ordered.

'That'll be General Lahk, then,' Isak muttered. He looked around; no one else seemed to be interested in getting up either. Vesna grunted in acknowledgement, but beyond that, none of them cared. Isak reached for the pipe again, nodding his thanks at the soldier, and looked out over the devastation of The Temple Plaza. So many dead – and he wasn't even sure why. He'd been lured to this city for what, for this? Was he merely a complication while Azaer settled a score with King Emin? But no, that couldn't be right, because the traitorous King's Man, Ilumene, had tried to lure him there… unless that had been a bluff? Isak put his head in his hands; the effort of thinking was beyond him. All he knew was that any scores of his own had been settled, one way or another, and now he wanted to go home. There were problems enough there and he wanted no more of Scree.

Someone called his name and he forced his head up to see General Chotech walking unsteadily towards him. The general was bloodied and bruised, but his great axe rested still across his shoulders and in true Chetse fashion he paid no mind to his obvious injuries as he advanced.

'Before your army gets here, I would beg an indulgence,' he said when he reached Isak.

Isak frowned at the man. 'If you want to ask me something, I warn you I'm not in a charitable mood.'

That produced a few half-hearted laughs from the watching soldiers, but the general gravely took him at his word. 'I ask nothing more than for you to join me in prayer.'

For once, Isak was thankful he was too tired to burst out laugh¬ing, for the general would have taken it sorely amiss. Instead he gave the man a level look. 'Pray? To… to Death? After what we've just witnessed?'

'We have survived,' Chotech replied. 'We have survived when the odds were against us. Death's warlike Aspects saved us, and 1 intend to give thanks.'

Isak opened his mouth to argue, but could think of no valid reason not to. On the face of it, the general was right and, like it or not, Isak was a lord in the service of the Gods. The notion alternately sickened and amused the white-eye, whose lack of piety had always been obvious, but it was not his intention to lead the Parian away from the Gods. Those who did such things invariably suffered for their presumption.

He nodded dumbly to General Chotech and struggled to his feet, raising a hand to stop Major Jachen jumping up to help him. Side by side with the ageing Knight of the Temples, Isak ascended the remaining two steps and began to walk down the main aisle towards the obsidian block of the high altar.

Their footsteps echoed around the empty building, the sound rising up to the thick black rafters above where more drapes hung undisturbed by the breeze outside. The floor was uneven and Isak, looking down to avoid missing his step, realised each huge flagstone was actually a tombstone, carved to record the names and final prayers of those whose ashes were contained in urns buried underneath the floor.

Isak suddenly remembered the time he'd been taken to the Temple of Death as a child, when the notion of walking over the dead had terrified him. Now he found it strangely comforting that their presence remained for eternity in this place of calm and reflection. The hoof-beats became louder behind him, making Isak smile in the darkness. His friends had reached the Temple Plaza; they would surround him soon enough.

As they reached the altar and Isak slid his shield from his arm, he caught a blur of movement out the corner of his eyes. He had half-turned when something smashed across his chest and glanced off his breastplate. The impact drove him back against the altar, and his arms were momentarily pinned. Unable to reach for Eolis, he kicked out at a dark shape, which roared and fell against the general, twisting as it did so to punch hard into Chotech's gut. The general gave a sharp gasp and doubled over.

The attacker pulled away and in the faint light Isak saw a long blade, and felt a hot line of blood spurt across his cheek. Chotech col¬lapsed, his legs twitching weakly, and Isak knew the man was dead.

In the darkness he couldn't make out much of their attacker, but what detail he could see was enough: a blade in each hand, a deformed, bony head, a single horn extending backwards. No human looked like that… the memory of Lord Chalat appeared in his mind. Hadn't the Chetse white-eye fought something like this when he'd interrogated Mihn in the Temple of the Sun? A soldier possessed by a daemon.

He launched himself forward and smashed an armoured elbow into its face before bringing bis knee up to its groin. He was much larger than his foe, which stood no taller than a normal Farlan, hut as it hit the ground and bounced up, Isak realised it was just as fast as he was, and it was unnaturally strong.

The attacker flew forward again; Isak caught the creature by the wrists and spun around to throw it, but somehow the creature whipped around and slammed both heels into his stomach. Isak felt a sharp pain and realised it had spiked feet. He winced as he flung the creature against the high stone altar, and as it bounced straight back at him he brought down his fist, as hard as he could, on the side of its head. The blow slowed it down enough for Isak to draw Eolis. He let it come; he had its range and speed now.

The creature snarled and shook its mane of black fur, as if clearing its wits. It had bony growths instead of hands, the length of a long dagger; that was what had killed General Chotech.

There were footsteps, and voices behind them, but Isak knew help had come too late. The creature seemed to know it too, for it wasted no time in springing forward, daggers reaching for him. Isak stepped smartly to one side and caught its left arm. Eolis cut its wrist with ease and the creature fell to the tombstone floor, howling in pain. Isak lunged forward, intending to run it through and finish this, but somehow it sensed the blow coming and rolled aside, slashing wildly up towards his face. He dodged the dagger-hands and caught the creature's forearm with his left hand, twisting it upwards and back, feeling the elbow crunch and snap. It gave a shriek of pain, but Isak knew that as long as it was still standing, it was still dangerous.

He forced it around and slammed it against the altar again, then pulled his sword back to deal the final blow. The creature pushed itself upright, the arm Isak had just broken hanging crooked and useless.

'Isak, no!' screamed a voice behind him and he caught a glimpse of Tila sprinting towards him, Jachen and Vesna on her heels. She looked terrified, but before she could say any more Isak turned back and lashed out with a foot, kicking its legs away again. The blow spun the creature off-balance and it smashed the bony ridges of its head on the altar steps as the ring of metal on metal pealed out through the temple.

The Land went quiet; the running feet behind him were dulled. Isak hesitated. Metal? He levelled his blade and took another look. He'd kicked the creature in the side of its knee, where he now saw a rough steel brace had been fitted over its trouser. His sword wavered as the creature writhed in agony and he caught sight of its twisted face. Inside his mind, Aryn Bwr spoke words he didn't recognise, and the Crystal Skull on his chest pulsed briefly.

Another blur of movement as an indistinct shadow was torn away from the creature, and a howl of fury rang out to the black-stained rafters. Isak ignored it. The creature howled, but this time it was a human sound, of fear and pain. Eolis fell from Isak's hand as he took a closer look at the man at his feet.

'Father?'