by Tom Lloyd
Coran was still ahead, battering a path through the enemy, swinging his mace about his head, letting its great weight crush armour and skulls alike. He was less encumbered than the Bloodsworn, and strong enough to fell a man with every blow, despite their heavy armour. Those few who managed to strike back at him found their swords glancing off his armour as Coran twisted and turned, never staying still, never giving them more than a glimpse of any vulnerable part of his body.
The Kingsguard caught him up and drove like a cavalry wedge into the slower-moving knights, knocking them aside, even wrestling them to the ground to get them out of their way as Coran led the charge to the Cheme infantry. The enemy were reeling from the speed and ferocity of their assault, Coran’s wordless rage echoing in their ears as the Kingsguard followed him joyously into the teeth of the battle.
The white-eye plunged the spiked tip of his mace down into a man’s neck and felt the armour over the collar-bone snap and buckle. The mace snagged on the armour as he tried to withdraw it, distracting him for long enough for an axe to crash into his shoulder. He grunted at the pain as the black-iron was unable to withstand the full force of the blow, spun around and used the vambrace on his left arm to bludgeon the knight in the side of the head, knocking the man into a Kingsguard, who finished him.
A flash of agony lanced through his injured shoulder as Coran hauled back on his mace, still trying to free it, but a Bloodsworn lashed out at him and he was forced to dodge to the side. Swearing furiously, the huge white-eye kicked at the head of his mace in frustration, and it flew up from the corpse in a spray of blood - just as a Menin knight took advantage of his momentary lack of concentration.
But Coran was faster than the Bloodsworn, and he lunged forward before the knight could strike again and punched right through his cuirass.
Something struck him on the side of the head, and Coran wheeled and swung out blindly. He hit something, but couldn’t see what, then he felt a burst of pain in his ankle and toppled like a tree, crashing onto his back. He lay there a moment, stunned, waiting for the final blow - then he saw movement surging past: the Kingsguard had overrun him.
Someone grabbed his arm and helped Coran up, and he shouted thanks without looking to see who it was, hobbling forward as fast as he could, anxious to rejoin the fight. A bright light exploded through the air, splitting through two Kingsguard in a fountain of blood, and finally Coran saw the one he’d been seeking. The pain faded away, now a distant memory, as something stirred deep within him. He tasted the air, and felt his teeth bare in a savage grin at the stink of blood and guts all around. He’d been born and bred for war, but now the bloodlust receded in Coran’s mind and he recognised the moment he had been waiting for all his adult life. This eclipsed Ilumene, and any other unfinished business. This was what he’d been created for.
He absentmindedly jabbed the butt of his mace into a soldier who appeared in front of him, knocking the man flying, just as Lord Styrax dismissively turned away from him and raised a misty-grey shield just in time to stop a white ball of fire from Cetarn on his earthen platform. Coran reversed his mace and stabbed the spike down into the soldier’s head, his eyes still firmly fixed on Styrax, while a low growl built in his throat.
A short Menin clutching an axe jumped between them and aimed for Coran’s ribs, but the white-eye swayed out of the way. At last he tore his eyes from the huge white-eye lord. He wrenched his mace up and caught the short Menin soldier a glancing blow on his shoulder, which knocked the man off-balance. Coran kicked his near leg out from under him, dropping the Menin. A tall soldier ran to save his officer, but Coran swung at his face, smashing away both helm and jaw in a burst of blood. The short Menin took advantage of the death of his trooper to stab Coran in the thigh with the spike of his own axe, while the white-eye was fending off blows from elsewhere.
Coran howled and staggered away, and the Menin, still grimly clutching onto his axe, found himself pulled to his feet. Coran grabbed the man’s arm and yanked him closer before he punched him in the face with the mace. The Menin’s head snapped back, falling limp, and Coran shoved the man into his next attacker, but not in time to prevent an axe hitting his injured arm. He lurched sideways, only to be caught from the other side. This time stars burst before his eyes. He was drunk with pain, remaining on his feet through sheer force of will as he fended off blows from all sides. A white-visored Bloodsworn ran in for the kill, and after stabbing him in the groin, Coran picked him up and tipped him onto a pair of infantrymen, knocking them to the ground. He let the momentum of his blow carry him around, barely seeing the next soldier as he caught him in the chest, throwing him backwards and into the man behind. Coran stabbed him in the face as a spear drove deep into his side, and he turned, screaming and swinging his mace down in one last killing stroke.
The weapon slipped from his grip and agony ripped up his spine. His left leg buckled as he reached for the next Menin and he slipped to one knee. His vision was already blurring as something struck him in the back of the head. He never saw the axe swinging up to meet his falling neck.
Styrax sensed the troops behind him being driven back, but still he didn’t turn. Riotous energies were turning the air scorching hot — the mage had a Skull, that was clear, and whoever it was, he knew he would not survive the day; he was letting the power within the Skull run rampant, and channelling such a vast stream of energy meant he was burning out his own brain at the same time.
The sensation sparked incandescent fury in Styrax’s belly. He’d felt this before, when the Farlan bastard had killed his son. He marched on, head down as he kept his defences up, barely seeing his men around him being torn apart by the blistering rage in the air. Styrax tightened his grip on his sword. He was unable to counter-attack without weakening his shields or scorching his own mind. He fought for every step, like fighting a swift current, but step by step he closed on the hillock. The air screamed and ripped before his eyes, burst white and gold like the heart of a star, until suddenly he was there, taking the sloped side of the platform in one stride.
The energies winked out, vanishing instantaneously, and for a breathless moment the gigantic white-eye and the mage faced each other. The mage was a big man himself, the size of a normal white-eye, but his face was withered, the veins in his neck bulged out, and his skin was as white as his hair. As Styrax met the man’s tortured gaze, the mage’s hair crumbled to ash. The Lord of the Menin raised Kobra high, and with an almighty effort, he cleaved the mage’s body in two, from left shoulder to right hip.
Styrax felt the Land slow about him, a hush descending over the slaughter. The mage’s Crystal Skull hovered before him, waiting for the white-eye to claim his prize. He turned about to face the fort, which was being slowly engulfed by his soldiers. At the foot of the platform Reavers and Bloodsworn - the few dozen men left — were desperately trying to resist the Kingsguard, while the greater bulk of the Cheme legion on his left were readying themselves for a counter-attack.
Lightning split the sky as his fingers closed about the Skull, and a sense of victory descended upon him. Up above, the heavens roared their approval, and underfoot the ground shook, echoing the vast, looming power of the clouds. Through the Skull he could feel trails of energy running through the moor, great iron chains drawing power to him through the earth. He turned lazily towards the beleaguered fort and the mages at its heart, sensing their presence like campfires in the dark.
It ends now, Styrax thought with grim finality.
The Land exploded underneath him. Everything went white.
ENDGAME
With his hand flat against the ground, Isak watched lightning strike the chains around the earthen platform. A haze of white fire encircled it, leaping up from the iron links and between the steel-capped stakes set in the surrounding ditch. Great chunks of soil flew up into the air as great thick-limbed figures of earth and stone rose up on all sides. The figures moved slowly, but with strange grace, reaching to the sky as they ascended from the chu
rned ground between platform and ditch.
Their inhuman faces were serene as they advanced on the black-armoured white-eye, quite unlike other elementals Isak had seen before. But these were Ralebrat; they were a breed apart from the rest - and they had the chance for atonement for their deeds during the Great War within their grasp. Some looked carved from stone, others were made of pebbles and dirt, like a statue without its skin. As the fire all around intensified, they attacked.
Isak stood, letting the cloak slip away from his shoulders. Underneath, he was shirtless, displaying the heart rune engraved on his chest, and as faces turned his way, he felt their gaze like needles, pricking into the long swathes of twisted tissue that covered most of his body. One hand covered his belly and the jagged scar that ran up his stomach. That wound he’d not received in Ghenna. That memory the witch had not been able to erase.
Isak watched Styrax’s blade, remembering its presence in his own gut - the white-hot pain, the way it jerked through flesh and bone, how it ripped out his guts . . . and he remembered his own high-pitched screaming. At that moment he’d smelled the hot, foetid breeze and he’d heard the chittering voices as darkness fell like acid eating his vision, and the emptiness of the grave swept over him.
Isak pulled his body straight as he faced the man who had killed him. On his chest the heart rune blazed hot and fierce on his skin, but this pain was welcome.
Styrax didn’t see him at first. He moved with dazzling speed, wielding Kobra with strength and precision, hewing a space in the centre of the platform, even as more Ralebrat rose to ward off the assault of the Menin bodyguard. As he moved, the white-eye lord weaved a skein of magic about him, a net of light spun from his sword to tangle the Ralebrat as they closed in on him. Already a dozen lay on the ground, looking like shattered monuments as the injured elementals struggled to escape the broken forms they had taken.
Then he caught sight of Isak, and Isak felt the look like a blow. It took all his strength not to shy away from Styrax, to lift his eyes and match the gaze of the one to whom his life and death had been bound, long before Isak was even born.
Styrax hesitated too, and the Ralebrat pulled back, keeping just beyond range of the fanged sword. On the other side of the ditch that encircled the earthen mound, the battle was still raging fiercely. Within the defensive boundary, there was a moment of unearthly calm.
‘I killed you,’ Styrax cried. ‘I saw you fall into Ghenna.’
Isak felt the words like a punch in the gut. Above him, as the sky was torn by lightning he cringed from the brightness, raising his left hand to shield his eyes. The thick lines of shadowy scarring on his left arm were vivid against his pale skin.
‘I know,’ Isak said in barely more than a whisper, slowly lowering his arm again. ‘You killed me. And here I stand.’
‘How?’ Styrax asked.
Isak gave him a broken smile, though his damaged lips and missing teeth made it more a grimace. ‘Your arrogance - your rage - they showed me the way. We are all slaves to our birth.’ He brought his right hand from behind his back and in it was Eolis, shining unnaturally bright against the storm-darkened moor.
‘You want to fight me again?’ Styrax laughed coldly.
Isak shook his head, though the damage to his neck and shoulder made it almost impossible for him to turn to the left now. ‘The Gods made you to be peerless in combat,’ he said. ‘I cannot beat you. No single mortal could beat you. And now no God would dare try.’
Styrax was silent a moment, then he removed his helm, and Isak saw his face properly for the first time. In his dreams it had always been covered, and the day Styrax had killed him, pain had blurred his vision. To his surprise, it was an unremarkable face, neither ugly nor handsome. Lord Bahl had looked rough and unfinished, but that was not the case with Kastan Styrax: his face was simply a canvas upon which power and strength had been painted. It was with the set of his jaw and the look in his eye that made Lord Styrax arresting to behold.
‘Then why are you here?’
Isak saw his finger brush the Crystal Skull fused to his sword-hilt, summoning the wyvern. The Menin Lord knew a trap when he saw it, but he was content to talk while his wyvern braved the lightning-lit sky to get to him.
‘To judge you,’ Isak said simply. ‘Look at the Skull in your hand.’
Styrax stared at the shining object for a few moments. ‘This is not the one King Emin took from Scree?’
‘It is Dreams,’ Isak confirmed, and held Eolis awkwardly out before him. The sword bore another Skull. Behind him three figures were slowly approaching. Legana and the witch of Llehden flanked him, one on either side. Their part in this was played. Mihn stood behind, in his master’s shadow. They watched in silence, bearing witness to the consequences of their actions.
‘This one is Ruling, first among the Crystal Skulls,’ Isak said.
He stabbed the sword down into the ground and unleashed the power of the Skull. White cracks appeared in the ground, racing through the trampled grass towards the mage’s platform.
Styrax immediately raised his defences and a cocoon of energy burst into life all around him before the shining cracks could reach him - but the shimmering power raced around the platform, well clear of the Menin lord.
Once again the tortured air roiled under the magical assault. Isak felt the scars on his skin come alive with pain, but still he continued, guiding the force through the Skull and into the sword.
Now, for the first time, he raised his voice, crying out, ‘Obey me — come forth!’
Colours burst all around and lightning lashed the ground between them, ripping the air apart to reveal a swirling column of darkness behind.
‘Come!’
The darkness writhed, coils of energy spreading to encircle the platform. Jagged lightning forked across the sky, again and again, striking all around the perimeter of the earthen platform. The Ralebrat reeled and cowered, some dying even as they supplicated themselves.
Isak pulled Eolis from the ground and levelled it towards the darkness, and the column wrenched around so violently the air itself ignited, burning white-hot. Death stepped out of the dark and raised His golden sceptre and all around the platform the Gods of the Upper Circle of the Pantheon stepped forward, obeying Isak’s call.
The Skull of Ruling was tied to Death, the Chief of the Gods, and it was the most powerful, and the most perilous to use. Aryn Bwr had seen that, and known that possession conferred the strength of rule, but Death’s place was at the very centre of the Land, and that was too much for even a king to bear long.
At the sight of the Gods who’d abandoned them in punishment millennia ago, the Ralebrat attacked once more, throwing themselves with abandon at the Lord of the Menin. His protective cocoon burst blindingly as they destroyed themselves upon it, but still they did not stop.
‘Peerless you were made, and unmatched you will die!’ Isak shouted over the wind that churned around them.
The Gods of the Upper Circle knelt, arms outstretched in the torrent of magic that was whirling, faster and faster, around the platform, all focused on Lord Styrax - save for Nartis, whose blank, midnight-blue face watched Isak.
‘But death is not the only defeat. You taught me that.’
An incantation tolled through the fractured air, the sonorous voices of Gods drawing such a torrent of magic down from the sky that the very clouds above were dragged down.
Styrax didn’t wait to hear more, but started to fight his way towards the platform’s edge, but the Ralebrat continued to bar his way. They didn’t make any attempt to fight their preternaturally swift opponent, just threw their stone bodies in his path to slow him as the energies surrounding the Gods and Isak struck at everything within the circle, battering elementals and mortal alike. The Ralebrat were shattered, but the white-eye was only driven back a step or two as the Crystal Skulls on his armour pierced the blistering hurricane of magic, flaring as bright as the sun.
‘They gave you power,’ Isak cried
, feeling the sparks of energy burst from his white eyes and race across his skin. ‘In their fear they gave you more power than any mortal should possess, and with it came pride, and arrogance: an understanding that nothing was beyond your skills. That no being - mortal or God - was your better.’
Isak took hold of Eolis in both hands, letting the blade cut deep into one palm. The blood seemed to boil on its surface and some droplets were scattered by the wind, but there was enough of the viscous liquid to run the length of its edge.
His voice dropped to a whisper, but it resonated around the moor like the heartbeat of the Land itself. It shuddered through earth, flesh and God alike. Somewhere far away he heard Mihn cry out.
‘And so I curse you,’ Isak gasped, both with the pain running through his body and the memories of Styrax’s vengeance.
Up above, the Menin’s wyvern was a dark shape in the sky, compelled by its master’s call despite the lighting. Styrax reached out with his sword and turned in a full circle, casting a burning trail of light that drove even the Gods back, but he could not stop their chant as Isak continued, ‘They made you to be untouched by God or mortal. As I cannot kill you, so I curse you, not with death but life,’ he choked. Limbs shaking and bile rising in his throat, he deflected the vast raw power Styrax was throwing in all directions.