The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (205 page)

As he felt the dragon near him, he raised his shield above his head, sending a wavering column of light up into the massing clouds. The storm responded to him and Isak felt the ear-splitting crash of lightning assail his protective cocoon. He looked up to see the enormous beast check its momentum, throwing its vast tail forward and its head back as another bolt of lightning split the air, then another.

Isak continued onwards; he knew he couldn’t control such a monstrous amount of magic for long without burning his mind out. Fifty paces from the enemy line, a bolt struck the huddled troops, tearing a hole in the ranks. He added his own power to that and heard the screams as magic set a dozen or more alight.

More lightning fell, the frequency and intensity increasing with every strike. Hanging in the air the dragon wheeled and turned, searching for a safe path through the supernatural lightning to Isak. It roared in pain, its voice rivalling the thunder that boomed out over the plain. Its scaled body shone with emerald light as the lightning raced over its body.

Driven backwards, the dragon reeled from the blow, but not even the power of the storm was enough to knock the monster from the sky. It had enough height to recover, and it used its gigantic pale green wings to heave its way up again. Isak sensed the beast’s shock, but its rage was undiminished. As best he could, he directed the storm towards it and was rewarded by the sight of the dragon retreating another few hundred yards before it landed heavily.

With his shield and sword raised, Isak marched towards the Menin infantry, and they scattered before him, too scared to face the furious storm of energy surrounding him. A second line of troops lay behind: cavalry and pikemen packed in tightly. Isak didn’t falter, but scanned the field urgently: he didn’t have much time left. The Crystal Skull defended his mind while it fed it with power only the Gods could comprehend, but that torrent of power was too much for any mortal to handle for long - let alone a novice. Soon the weakest link in the chain would snap, and the riot of raw power would react like a whiplash.

Finally he spotted them: a beastman in armour and a large knight with Lord Styrax’s emblem painted in white on his chest, sitting on horseback between the cavalry and infantry: General Gaur and Scion Kohrad, Styrax’s son.

As he pressed on, each step required more and more effort as he felt his own awareness bleeding away. More magic struck him, but still to no effect; more lighting hammered down with the rage of Gods and tore men apart. He saw General Gaur point in his direction, though the words were lost in an ocean of noise, and saw crossbowmen level their weapons. With a sweep of his hand Isak tore a furrow through them, ripping the soldiers open three ranks deep, leaving only corpses behind.

Without warning, he broke into a run, intent on closing the ground while he still could. General Gaur spurred forward to meet him, but Isak swatted both huge warhorse and its rider sprawling as he charged straight at Kohrad.

Kastan Styrax’s son was no coward. The young white-eye roared a challenge, slipping from his horse, and swung both axe and sword at Isak, who lunged forward, using his own weapons to deflect Kohrad’s. He hit Kohrad, only a glancing blow but it drove the smaller white-eye back, and a bolt of lightning crashed down between them. Kohrad howled and attacked again, feinting high then cutting at Isak’s legs. He tried in vain to knock Eolis from Isak’s grasp, but the Farlan lord dodged and smashed his shield into Kohrad’s face. Kohrad rode the blow and slashed at Isak with both his weapons, bearing down so that Isak was forced backwards, but he caught the blows on his shield and lashed out with Eolis, a volley of cuts that had Kohrad defending desperately until a blast of thunderous power gouged a great furrow in the ground between the two, forcing them apart.

Isak turned and saw a wyvern leap forward over the heads of the cavalrymen who had been watching the fight in stunned silence, too awed to intervene in this clash of giants. The storm suddenly focused and lightning began to target the black-armoured figure atop the winged beast, but Kastan Styrax held his white hand above his head, projecting a steel-grey shield of magic. Though the lightning thrashed ferociously about the shield, it was to no avail -but it gave Isak all the time he needed.

He drew deeply on the Skull and sent wild tendrils of energy in all directions, before suddenly concentrating them on Styrax himself. Under the assault, the air between them seemed to distort and rip. He heard the mocking, exultant laughter of the Reapers in his shadow, and the groan of the Land itself as he let loose more magic than he could ever have even conceived of.

Styrax twisted his shield down, somehow fending off the attack once again, and the wyvern disappeared behind a curtain of blinding sparks.

Now barely able to see, working entirely by instinct, Isak loosed his hold on the magic, tightened his grip on Eolis and abruptly turned. He swept back the sword, and in one smooth motion, he threw Eolis…

… and the sword, moving as if in slow motion, pierced the incandescent chaos…

… and struck its target dead-centre…

Isak’s legs gave away underneath him and he crumpled, falling almost simultaneously with Kohrad as the force of Eolis smashing into him made him stagger backwards before he fell to the ground.

In the next moment the storm of magic disappeared and pain engulfed his body. Isak forced himself to one knee, almost shrieking with pain. His lungs were wheezing agony, his throat a ball of flame inside his body.

Distantly he heard an animal cry of grief.

‘Kohrad!’ someone screamed, and a black-clad figure raced past. Isak lurched almost drunkenly, unable to focus his eyes, his body twitching in distress. He tried to turn his head, but his body refused to obey. More shouting, then a blow to the side of his head that laid him out, face-down in the ruined earth.

Hands grabbed him and dragged him upright, pulling the helm from his head. A face appeared, contorted with rage and hatred, shouting something, but he couldn’t understand a word. Then he heard, in heavily accented Farlan, ‘You will burn! You will suffer agony with no end!’

Isak managed to choke out a laugh. ‘You think so? I’m dying,’ he whispered, the effort of speaking bringing tears to his eyes.

‘Not before I’m finished with you!’ Styrax roared. He knelt down next to Isak and smashed his mailed fist into the side of Isak’s head.

Stars burst before his eyes as an explosion of pain overrode the previous agony, but Isak forced a smile onto his face. ‘Paradise awaits me,’ he wheezed. ‘I am one of the Chosen - and now I die.’

A dark veil appeared around them all and through the one eye still working, Isak could see the Land suddenly appeared darker and colder. Death’s hand rested on his shoulder.

‘I will not allow it!’ Styrax screamed in frustration and fury, smashing Isak once more to the ground.

At a signal, his men laid out the Farlan lord on his back, pinning down his arms and legs, though he was too weak even to stand.

Isak coughed torturously, trying to turn his head as he vomited up stinking black blood.

‘You will never see the Land of No Time,’ Styrax snarled, digging his black-iron-clad fingers into Isak’s flesh, ‘you will see no Last Judgment!’ He ripped the Crystal Skull from Isak’s cuirass and tossed it aside almost carelessly, then punched Isak in the face, shattering his nose. With a thought he called his black sword and Kobra flew into his hand.

Isak felt the Menin lord open himself to the awesome power contained within his own Skulls, and a whirlwind of dark flames sprang up around them. His vision cleared a little as his body gratefully drank in the wild surging magic, but it did nothing to assuage the pain running through his blood and bones. His damaged eye bled freely down his cheek, and the fire in his throat continued unabated.

He heard Styrax howling words he didn’t recognise, and he felt the earth writhing and shaking underneath him.

‘Pain I promised you,’ Styrax spat, ‘and pain you will receive!’

He lunged forward and the fanged sword split Isak’s cuirass and drove deep into his stomach. Isak screamed hoarsely as the blade split his gut, both searing hot and burning cold. Styrax yanked the blade up and down, trying to make it as excruciating as he could, ripping Isak open from groin to sternum and driving the breath from his body. The air around them filled with a terrible chittering sound, the voices of daemons sweeping in.

The darkness grew thick and cold as Styrax gave Kobra one last twist. He was rewarded with another cry, and that won, he raised his boot and stamped down on Isak’s broken face.

‘Think of the life you took,’ he said, his own voice jagged with grief, ‘as your skin is torn from your body in Ghenna! The Dark Place welcomes you.’ He jerked out Kobra and Isak fell, feeling the earth give way beneath him as he plunged deeper and deeper. The darkness enveloped him and the cries of daemons became deafening.

He screamed.

Mihn pulled his tattered leather coat around him as he looked out over the lake, watching the raindrops forming concentric circles on the otherwise still surface, trying to work out why he felt so uneasy. The rain had been falling steadily since early morning and the solid mass of slate-grey clouds hid the sun so completely he could only guess the hour.

The only habitation in sight was a squat cottage in bad need of repair. A battered fishing boat had been dragged up the shore away from the water and left under a crude cover made of loosely woven branches covered with a ragged tarpaulin. The cottage had been abandoned for two seasons now, so Mihn had requisitioned it for himself. He valued solitude quite as much as the witch did, and had no intention of imposing on her hospitality for longer than absolutely necessary.

There was no sound other than the rain falling on water and ground. He looked back at the trees behind him, hoping to see gentry peering out from the shadows, but there were none. It looked like their curiosity had finally been appeased, and they had decided to accept the presence of a human as impossibly stealthy as they themselves were. Their absence made Mihn feel strangely alone.

He had been staring at the water for too long, lost in his disquietude, but nothing had changed. He was considering taking the little rowboat out so he could try his hand at fishing when a distant sound caught his ear - running footsteps, maybe?

Scarcely had he turned back to the forest when a girl of no more than twelve summers came careening down the path through the trees and stumbled to a halt in front of him. As she stared open-mouthed at the former Harlequin, he took note of her own appearance: bright blue eyes and a reddened nose peeking out from under a sandy mess of hair.

‘Are you looking for me?’ Mihn asked softly, trying hard to sound friendly and approachable, but the very act of speaking almost spooked the girl into scampering back the way she’d come.

‘What’s your name?’ he tried again.

The girl swallowed. ‘Chera, sir.’

Her faded dress had red flowers poorly embroidered along the hem. He guessed it had belonged to at least one older sibling before her. He gave a little bow. ‘Hello, Chera. I am Mihn ab Netren ab Felith. Have you been sent to find me?’

‘Y - Yes, sir. She’s screamin’, sir, that brown girl, screamin’ like the creatures of the Dark Place is after ‘er.’

Mihn frowned at the child’s choice of words and she edged back a step, frightened by his expression.

He smoothed out his frown and asked gently, ‘Did the witch say I was to return with you?’

Chera shook her head. ‘Twilight, sir’ she muttered. ‘She said to make yersel’ ready and come at the ghost hour.’

Mihn nodded gravely. ‘The ghost hour it is. Thank you, Chera.’

He stood impassively, waiting until the child had disappeared back into the trees before he gave in to the overwhelming emotion that had hit him at her words.

His face drained of blood and he sank to his knees, his legs betraying him. Gasping like a drowning man, he allowed a single moan of sorrow to escape his lips before he buried his face in his tattooed palms.

‘Isak,’ he whispered, choking on his own tears. ‘Merciful Gods, Isak, what have we done?’

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