The light intensified, the air shuddering as though under sudden assault. Isak shied away from the magic that spiralled down into the circle with a great rushing sound. There was a surge of a stormy wind, then a funnel of air appeared from nowhere, spinning tightly into a whirlwind ten feet high before melting into nothingness to reveal the white-robed figure of Ilit, staring imperiously at Ruhen.
The God’s narrow face was sharp, the jutting lines of his nose and brow as solid as his hair was flowing and ever-moving. He carried a golden bow in his hand, and the shining Horn of Seasons nestled in the crook of his arm. Ilit’s piercing, sky-blue eyes focused on Ruhen. His expression was one of rage. ‘This-’
But the God didn’t get a chance to finish his words as Ilumene ran him through, the jewelled bastard sword blazing with light as it drove deep into Ilit’s gut. Ichor spilled down his pristine robe and the God staggered back. He raised his hand to strike Ilumene down, but the grinning warrior twisted the sword in the wound and Ilit faltered, holding still just long enough for Venn to cleanly sever the God’s head.
Isak felt Ilit’s death like an explosion on his skin, a sudden battering of wild magic and life-force torn apart before they dissipated and were absorbed by the rock of the cavern. He shuddered, feeling a hollow pain in his stomach as the Land roiled beneath him, reeling from the sudden, enormous death it had suffered. He retched again as the scent of ichor filled his nose and Ilit’s death-scream crashed through his mind.
‘See my resolve, Gods of the Upper Circle,’ Ruhen intoned, eyes wide and shining bright. ‘See my power and despair. I can tear you all down, each and every one of you.’
He turned to Venn as the black Harlequin wiped the dead God’s blood from his blade. ‘Herald of twilight,’ Ruhen crooned, ‘attend me.’
Venn stopped as though stung by a wasp, his mouth open. A wisp of black mist snaked out like a daemon’s tongue, followed by more and more. Faint trails crept from his eyes and ears too, and coalesced into a shadow slipping out of Venn and becoming a kneeling figure, head bowed before his master.
Isak caught the sharp, sickly scent of rotting peaches on the air and recognised it from Doranei’s accounts: Rojak, the minstrel responsible for Scree’s destruction.
Isak was helpless under the weight of Termin Mystt and the silver chain. He could only watch as the shadow’s lips parted and Rojak spoke silent words to his master’s mortal vessel. Ruhen smiled and looked away. A sliver of white light broke away from Aenaris and dipped down to the flowing flames surrounding them.
The magic gathered up a small stream of fire and carried it up in the air, high above their heads, where it swirled with malevolent intent. Isak’s ears rang with the distant howls of the souls within Maram’s fire, which broke apart at a word from Ruhen and became twelve streams, each one twirling out to encircle the top of each standing stone, crowning them with flame. Isak could sense a greater spell being worked as the power of Aenaris grew stronger yet again. It momentarily blinded Isak with its light as the wreaths of fire hissed and spat on the stones they now bound.
There was another great burst of light, and when the stars in Isak’s eyes cleared he saw each ring of fire break and slither like snakes towards the alcoves beneath each rune. Ilumene and Venn placed their Crystal Skulls into the appropriate niches and all six were covered by flame. Balls of fire filled the empty alcoves.
Isak couldn’t see behind him, but the jolt of pain that wracked his body and filled his bones with acid told him Tiniq had released his contact with the Skull. Magic filled his body; he felt it leaking out like blood seeping from a wound, but the loss was a relief and after the first moments of agony he realised the power of Termin Mystt was joining that of Aenaris, its mate, and fuelling the ritual Ruhen was performing. He screwed up his eyes and tried to fight it, to disrupt or slow the spell, but the effort was excruciating, like claws tearing at his mind, and he had to release it, whimpering like a dying puppy.
All around him he sensed the power in the Skulls twisting and knotting, their unleashed presence like beacons in the night. Distantly he could sense the others too, Legana and Vesna both crying out as fire wrapped around their Skulls Close — they were close!
Hold on, Isak screamed at himself, desperate to keep his mind removed from the terrifying power surging through his body. They’re coming. Hold on!
Vesna roared and struck again, flames from his Crystal Skull surging down the length of his blade to burst on the Devoted’s shoulder. The man crumpled, but another lunged at him frantically as his comrade fell. The Mortal- Aspect felt the man’s sword scrape up across his cuirass and over his bicep; he twisted and brought his left arm down like a hammer, snapping the blade against his armour. A backhand blow shattered his attacker’s helm and threw him backwards, and a Ghost hacked into his hip, felling the Devoted.
He looked around and saw Ghosts and Devoted alike dying. The Farlan line had buckled under the press of greater numbers, but they were holding, fighting with the fury of daemons, and the Devoted were being repelled. Vesna levelled his sword and the magic engulfing it lanced out, lashing fire across the retreating soldiers.
‘More coming!’ one man yelled, and a ragged group of Devoted came charging from the left. The waiting Ghosts readied themselves for another assault. All around them a carpet of death covered the hill.
That last wave that should have swamped them, Vesna thought, but for the ferocity of the Ghosts. As he watched the Devoted fell, one by one dropping to the ground, and he suddenly realised they were not charging but fleeing.
‘The Menin!’ Vesna shouted with the strength of a God, ‘they’re our allies!’ And behind the Devoted came dark, heavily armoured men with a tall soldier at the front: General Amber, driving his men onwards. He slashed a last Devoted across the head, and the impact snapped the man’s neck sideways and felled him instantly.
The line of Ghosts opened and Vesna saw a hundred or more Menin surge into the gap, some gasping, others howling warcries that no longer contained words.
General Amber staggered towards Vesna, one arm slack and trailing blood as he walked. ‘Iron General,’ Amber rasped, forcing himself to stand tall, ‘we stand with you.’
Vesna raised his flaming sword high above his head and the Ghosts cheered raggedly. ‘We welcome you,’ he bellowed, as though his men could regain their strength from the power of his voice alone. ‘Karkarn stands with us.’
‘And daemons hunt us,’ Amber croaked as Nai ran to his side and grabbed the general’s arm.
Amber flinched in surprise, then seemed to realise who was there. Nai carried one of Amber’s own scimitars; clearly he’d picked it up when Amber had been wounded, but he dropped it now and wrapped his hands around Amber’s bleeding arm. A swift burst of magic made Amber cry out with pain.
‘It’s sealed,’ Nai announced, retrieving his weapon, ‘but your ribs are broken. You need to hold back. They need you alive.’
Amber growled a curse at the man and turned away. ‘They need me down there,’ he grunted, ‘but I can’t help them now. Those daemons will tear the heart out of us, and once they do, I’ll have no men left to need me.’
Vesna turned to where he pointed; he couldn’t see the slope itself from where they were standing, but he knew there was fighting all up it. Beyond the base, however, Menin and Narkang soldiers were advancing side by side on the boiling mass of white monsters who had ripped into the very heart of the army.
‘Look — the Dark Monks,’ someone cried, pointing to the low ground between hill and rise. ‘They’re moving to attack!’
Vesna felt a jolt as he saw Suzerain Torl’s cavalry aiming for the rear of Ruhen’s Children, though fresh Devoted cavalry stood in their way. Once he got into that strip of ground there would be little room for Torl’s horsemen to manoeuvre, but the suzerain appeared to have forgotten the tactics he’d championed among the Farlan. Even at that distance Vesna could see this was not a strafing run; the Dark Monks were getting ready to charge directly for the enemy, though they had already fought several engagements and their horses had to be almost blown.
‘He’s trying to buy us time,’ Vesna realised. ‘He knows the pressure needs to be relieved.’
‘He’ll die, then,’ Amber rasped, his arm pressed to his side as he moved up to stand beside Vesna. ‘They’ll get pinned down by the infantry on the rise and crushed.’
‘He’s the best of us,’ Vesna said to shouts of agreement from the Ghosts nearby. ‘Torl doesn’t fear death, only failure.’
Suddenly Amber dropped to one knee, gasping in pain. Vesna half-picked him up but that seemed to only hurt Amber more and the Farlan hero felt a sudden pang of fear for this man he barely knew.
‘You’re hurt badly — get that armour off.’
‘Piss on you,’ Amber growled. ‘If I’m done, I’ll go fighting, not sat on my arse while my men protect me.’
