by Tom Lloyd
A nimbus of bright white light enveloped his body. Whipping sparks danced over his armour and arced from one fist to the other. He rose up on an effusion of wrath. The air shimmered and wavered as he held the rampant magic tight in his hands, then unleashed the spitting bursts of light on his enemies.
With the sparks and screams fell a haze of rain. He heard someone calling out, a name, but didn’t know if it was his own. He didn’t care. That part of him that had a name was hidden - now, he was an avatar of death, glorying in the majesty of his work. Words came unbidden to his lips, gathering those sparks and raindrops together. He pulled Eolis from the dead thing impaled upon it and cut it through the glittering swirl he’d created. It became a storm of golden shards of glass, spinning faster and faster, until he threw it forward to slice and ruin.
As the magic drained from his body, Isak felt something else ahead, something growing with ferocious speed and burning with the same anger he felt. The air grew hot around him and dirty grey wisps of smoke appeared from the churned ground. A shape, orange and white, burst into life on the ground, a creature of flame bound by hatred. A memory forced its way into his thoughts: a Chalebrat. He was facing a fire elemental. As Isak gasped, he felt scorching heat run down his throat. He staggered back, the fringes of his cloak alight, and held his shield high to protect his exposed eyes as swirling hot trails danced in the air and a crushing pain pressed in on his skull.
He struck out - and hit nothing. A long arm of fire swept him off his feet, but again Isak hit nothing. The blade trembled in his hand, frustrated. Though unstained by the flames it cut through, Eolis could find nothing to destroy. In the searing heat Isak cowered back, away from the legion of fiery pinpricks that razed his skin.
Now he felt the Chalebrat looming over him, insubstantial, but deadly, closing for the kill. He felt a shadow pass over his body and the light dimmed - only a little, but enough to relieve the pain for a moment or two. He tensed every muscle in his body and tightened his grip on Eolis, readying himself for his one chance to survive—
A terrific blast of rushing air screamed down towards Isak, followed immediately by the earth-shaking thump of a massive weight hitting the ground. Isak was jerked up into the air by the impact, and as he dropped back down, he realised the intense heat had faded to nothing.
Cool air rushed in around him as he lay crumpled, face-down on the muddy ground, the rain spattering on his armour. A moment of calm descended. The bitter scent of burnt flesh drifted to Isak’s nose, stirring brief panic as he wondered whether it was his own. He listened to the raindrops falling…
… until a thunderous roar broke the quiet, a bellow so loud that Isak recoiled from the sheer force of the sound, scrambling to his feet to face this new monster. As he did, a huge head snapped forward towards him. Isak ducked, dropping down to one knee, and heard the terrifying crunch of huge jaws. He got to his feet and as the dragon raised its head and shook the troll in its mouth before tearing it in two, he recognised Genedel.
The deceptive shadows of its underground lair had not fully prepared Isak for what now lay before him: a long serpentine body covered in shimmering, near-translucent scales, a glittering kaleidoscope of magic and light that married a shocking beauty to awesome, lethal power. The dragon’s speed was phenomenal as it ripped into the trolls, biting, spearing with its horns, raking with wicked talons and chopping left and right with its axe-like tail.
Even the tough hides of the trolls were no match for this dazzling storm of claws, horns and teeth, and at that moment, Isak recognised the vision in Aryn Bwr’s mind when he shaped Siulents. This was the image he wanted others to see.
From a saddle on the dragon’s back slid the Lord of the Farlan, as graceful as a dancer moving through familiar steps, before the crackling edge of his sword sliced through the bodies around him. On his head was an old crested helm that Isak had never seen before, but that was far from the greatest difference. Lord Bahl moved without hesitation, blending magic and devastating strength with a skill that made Isak shiver at the enormous gulf between them.
Bahl struck and drew back, struck again as a grey barrier appeared to deflect a swinging fist. Another kicked out and Bahl simply stepped up sideways, turning his body horizontal in the air before pushing off the chest of another troll and launching himself through the body of the one that had kicked at him. Isak gasped as he felt the massive burst of magic from Bahl’s enchanted armour. The Lord’s body seemed to fade into insubstantiality as it passed through the troll, only to return to normal as Bahl turned to hack into its spine. He spun in the air as another reached for him, stepped up on to a dead body and grabbed the next with his free hand, swinging his blade around to slash the troll’s throat.
Under such an assault, and penned in on three sides by the heartened knights, the trolls could face no more. Growls of panic and fear rang out on all sides as they turned, like a startled herd of bison, and fled the field. Those few who lingered in confusion were mown down by the rejuvenated soldiers. Genedel gave a triumphant bellow. With one great beat of its wings it took to the air, spitting gouts of flame down on the fleeing creatures, while the Ghosts cheered the dragon on.
‘General, enemy to your rear,’ shouted Bahl as he stood on a grey corpse and scanned the field. ‘Our infantry are not close enough; we’ll be boxed in.’
‘Herald,’ cried the general. Isak followed the voice to see the general, battered and bloody, with his herald cowering behind him. The general pushed up his visor and pulled the boy round to face him. ‘Sound infantry advance to flank.’
The herald coughed and scrabbled to bring his horn to his lips, but he could find no breath to produce a sound. General Lahk, losing patience, grabbed the horn from his hands and sounded the five quick notes then, thrusting it back at the herald, scowled and ran to his Lord’s side. To the right, Sir Cerse raised his battle-axe, pointing off to the left of where the trolls were fleeing.
‘Ghosts, form line east on me!’ The order rang out loud and clear.
Isak joined Bahl and the general as they took in what they could of the battlefield.
The foot are holding, the enemy is too disorganised to break the line and the cavalry have prevented a flanking attack,’ Bahl said. ‘Isak, you did well there, but now trust your arm only. You’ve drawn on so much magic that any more could overwhelm you.’
Isak nodded, wincing slightly as he pushed against the armour over his ribs.
‘Hurt?’
‘Not badly enough to stop me.’
‘Good. Find yourself a horse. We can finish this battle now, with luck.’
Already the Ghosts were in some sort of order. Duke Certinse was standing in his stirrups, his burning sword raised high as he called the Eastmen to him. Isak watched liveried hurscals and knights make for Suzerain Fordan as he did the same, shouting for the men of the Heartland. The regions were old forms of allegiance, a relic of the fractured realm Bahl had inherited. Isak had not realised until now that they had been preserved for the battlefield, but he recognised a quick way to regroup amid the chaos of combat.
‘General Lahk, sound the infantry advance and take the Ghosts to their brothers,’ Bahl ordered.
The general saluted crisply and turned without waiting to hear more. Before Bahl could speak again, the general was shouting for his troops to turn west. The infantry and knights of the Ghosts would carve an army in two to join their brothers. The delay while the soldiers reformed would be more than worthwhile.
‘My Lords.’ Isak looked up as Count Vesna approached, leading two horses. The man looked pristine, not a dent or scratch on his armour and hardly a fleck of dirt or blood on himself or his horse. Isak could smell the mud and gore on his own armour - if he hadn’t seen Vesna ride into the mass of trolls himself, he’d have thought the man had never been near the battlefield.
Bahl nodded his thanks and took the reins from Vesna. He kept the bay in the black-and-white of the Palace Guard, his own colours, and offered the jet-black
mare draped in yellow to Isak. The Krann struggled for a moment to get back into the saddle, his shield and damaged ribs hampering his efforts. He didn’t bother asking after the owners of the horses.
‘Lord Isak, your cloak… are you sure you can fight?’ Vesna pointed at Isak’s cloak. The once-pristine white cloth was now grey with dirt and soot, and burned away to the bottom of the dragon symbol. Below it, scorch marks were visible on the surface of Siulents.
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, sounding more blase than he felt. ‘Genedel’s shadow made the Chalebrat pause. It could have killed me, but it hesitated.’
‘Shadow?’ interrupted Bahl. ‘We came in too low to cast a shadow on you.’
Behind them a great voice rang out from the assembled Palace Guard. ‘Meh Nartis!’
The three men turned to see the general raise a pair of battle-axes above his head as his soldiers took up their war-cry: The Hand of God, the Fire of the Storm, the Reapers of Men.
‘Enemy advancing,’ warned a voice from behind them. Bahl snapped a look at Isak, then swung up into his saddle. ‘This is not the time to discuss shadows,’ Bahl said before raising his voice to a roar. ‘Eastmen, Knights of the Heartland, to me!’ His deep voice carried to both groups, and Certinse and Fordan immediately repeated the order. Isak was glad to see Duke Certinse had not hesitated to obey his Lord, however much of a traitor he might be.
Bahl sat in his saddle and waited for the men to catch them up - the Palace Guard moving through and around them had caused the knights to sit and let them pass. From his vantage point he could see two units of several thousand elves advancing towards them. To the left, the spearmen of Lomin were running up to make up the distance.
‘They’re not close enough to protect our flank,’ Bahl muttered to himself. ‘Let the enemy come to us.’
Isak looked at the old lord and realised the thinking aloud was for his benefit. If he was ever to lead the Farlan, he needed to know about distances and lines of attack, and all manner of things that were difficult to learn except on the field of battle.
‘So we need to slow them down or they’ll swamp us with numbers.’
‘Exactly. Victory sometimes depends on nothing more than illusion,’ Bahl replied. Sheathing White Lightning, he reached out his hands and muttered under his breath. Isak felt the words slide out through the air as they were spoken, rushing forward to the advancing elves. The magic inside him was crying out to be wielded again, but he resisted, heeding Bahl’s words.
Up ahead, a line of fire flared up from the grass in front of the nearer enemy unit. Isak could hear the screams of fear and alarm as the flames grew taller, and the whole mass of figures struggled and fought to a halt. Bahl shuddered suddenly as the enemy mages dispelled the magic and the illusion vanished from their path, then he chuckled dryly to himself. ‘That was a stupid thing to do. Don’t they know dragons like the taste of mages better than trolls?’
A ripple of magic echoed out from the rocky ridge behind them. Isak turned in the saddle; he was just able to make out the scarlet robes of the Farlan battle-mages within the ranks of archers. They’d seen what Bahl had done and followed suit. The subtlety of illusion came much more easily to a mage than a white-eye, while they in turn lacked the strength to hurl real fireballs as Bahl could.
Soon shapes started appearing in front of the hesitant troops, who crept forward slowly: a gigantic ice-cobra reared up and lunged at them. A pair of huge eagles began to circle above the further unit and that too faltered.
‘And now to actually hurt them.’ Bahl began to mouth words again, but this time Isak could see the sounds escape as wisps of black smoke from the Lord’s mouth. They fell to the ground and began to merge into one, growing as Bahl repeated the words again and again. A fat oily cloud was forming, turning and wriggling like some awful blind maggot, until it suddenly appeared to get the scent of the elves ahead. With a dreadful rustling slither it began to glide over the plain with deceptive speed, its thin tail propelling it onwards with each grotesque flick.
By the time the elves noticed Bahl’s magic they had no time to move. The shape surged on into their ranks and sudden shrieks of pain began to come from the enemy lines. Isak saw the elves fighting with each other to get out of the way, frantically swatting at their arms and bodies to try to remove whatever was hurting them. It looked like those whom the shape passed over had been sprayed in acid as they screamed in agony and panic.
‘What was that?’
‘Something nasty. Who’s got a horn?’ Suzerain Fordan, riding beside Lord Bahl, offered his. Bahl waved it away so Fordan shrugged and raised it to his own lips and looked to Bahl for his orders.
‘Sound the full charge.’
‘But we’re not formed up yet,’ he protested.
‘It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that we hit them now, while they’re wavering.’
Fordan nodded his agreement and sounded the order, which was echoed by the infantry’s drummers. Bahl looked around, then raised White Lightning and kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. The men around him followed suit and a throaty roar spread through the mass of horsemen as they hurtled after their Lord, headlong into the enemy ranks. Paralysed by the spells cast upon them, the elves stood still and unprepared. The powerful hunters, their armour turning each one into a battering-ram, smashed through the infantry lines, kicking and stamping, while their riders split skulls and lopped off limbs with equal ease.
As he cut and slashed the scrawny elves, Isak could hardly feel any impact in his arm. The light armour they wore had no effect on Eolis - he could have been hewing a path through a field of nettles rather than living creatures. The sensation stirred something inside him. These elves were nothing more than long grass rustling against his calves. As his armour turned aside spears and arrows and his sword cut limbs into bloody chunks, the gnawing beast of magic in his belly screamed to be released.
A spear thrust under his horse’s armour, drove deep into its lung. The animal reared up, screaming in pain, and Isak tumbled off. As he rose to his feet, unhurt, three elves lunged for him at once. He dodged the first blow, then beheaded the second enemy and turned the third elf’s spear with his shield. None of them got the chance for a second strike. The elves were the size of children next to Isak; their shoulders were hunched by the curse of the Gods and their features twisted.
Isak hardly needed his sword. His huge arms were saturated with lethal strength and raw magic. He forgot the steps and strokes Carel had drummed into him since he was a child; the press of bodies meant all he could do was to strike out at everything within reach. Nearby he heard Suzerain Fordan’s throaty laughter. He had lost his helm somewhere, and his horse: the barrel-chested man was on foot, swinging a huge war-hammer so powerfully that it was taking elven heads clean off.
As Isak watched, the man’s broad smile faltered as a spear spitted him, piercing the join between his breastplate and backplate. The suzerain staggered and tried to lift his hammer again, but the elf twisted his spear in the wound and a paroxysm of agony flashed over Fordan’s face. He fell to his knees and another elf stepped up and stabbed down with a short but lethal stroke. Before Isak could move, Duke Certinse’s burning sword flashed into view, cutting through both elves, before he was off and moving deeper into their ranks. Behind him followed three of his hurscals; there were mounted knights behind them.
Isak turned and launched himself at the enemy again. The choking odour of death, sweat and excrement made his human self recoil, but there was something else to replace it. He tasted magic on the air and embraced its fury. Encased in the liquid grace of Siulents, Isak flowed over the bodies and started dealing death with an artistry that belied his brutish desire.
He hardly noticed when the enemy began to flee. The slow-moving elves died, whether they faced him or ran. Eolis sliced through swords and shields to reach the flesh. Fire and fury burst hot and savage from Isak’s fingertips as a torrent of magic lashed and swirled around him. Spectr
al shapes hovered at the edges of his sight as he killed again and again. The ground itself opened up to receive the dead, deep furrows in the earth groaning open like yawning funeral barrows.
Finally a burst of pain in his skull stopped Isak dead. A cold weight appeared at the back of his head, as though he’d been clubbed, and his body was shocked into numbness. As he dropped to his knees the beast inside him faded, sated by the destruction it had wrought. Isak gasped for breath he could no longer find. Dropping Eolis and throwing aside his shield, he scrabbled desperately at his helm. For a moment he couldn’t move it, through weakness or some sort of resistance, and then off it came.
Tearing off his hood, Isak sucked in great heaving gulps of air. He had been so immersed in the sea of battle that he had almost drowned in its dark depths. Now pain lanced through his body and his lungs cried out for more air while his mind howled at the slaughter around him - and the pleasure it had spawned in him. He bent over and retched, tears of pain and anguish dripping to mingle with the blood that ran from his body. With the taste of puke still in his mouth, he pitched forward and collapsed on to the ground, not even feeling himself hit as a numbing darkness washed over him.
CHAPTER 15
Dragons soared overhead, emerald, diamond and sapphire scales shining in the summer sun. The monsters radiated an unearthly beauty as they gouged and tore each other apart. He laughed as he plunged his blade into beautiful men with wings for arms, their soft feathers charred and matted with blood. Insectoid figures bearing huge bronze hammers leapt eagerly to their deaths. The sun cast rainbow hues off their dark chitinous bodies. The coppery tang of magic melded the panoramic riot into an intoxicating and corrupting exhilaration. He crafted agony in his hand and cast it out among the mortals beneath him. The song of fear rang out in his mind, drowning out the wind and the clash of steel. The sun itself drew back and hid from the slaughter. And still he laughed. Still he killed.