The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (71 page)

Styrax watched as Kohrad, impeded by one of the stone pillars, reached up to touch it. His fingers settled flat against the chill stone. Styrax heard his son snarl and saw the flames intensify, as if swelling in the fat streams of magic that flowed past him. The pillar blackened in a widening stain around Kohrad’s hand and there was a loud cracking sound as the pillar started to give under the enormous pressure. Styrax began to run towards his son, his white hand reaching for the Crystal Skull at his chest. He felt the surge of magic flooding through the pillars towards them: the time had come. He had to act now, or run the risk that his son would never recover his senses, for the magic Kohrad was randomly drawing would simply burn away his mind.

This was the opportunity they had been waiting for. Styrax broke into a run. The Skull came away from his armour easily and he held it at his waist as he planned his attack. The burning figure didn’t seem to notice him. ‘Kohrad!’ Styrax roared.

His son looked up, his sword twitching, as Styrax flung the Skull named Destruction up in the air. His sword immediately forgotten, Kohrad watched the shining artefact arc up towards him, blazing in the firelight. As it neared, the light grew more intense, feeding from Kohrad’s flames and drawing in power. Kohrad reached out with supplicant arms to catch the Skull he had once plucked from the Duke of Raland’s plump hands, and as it fell into his embrace, he hugged it tight, pulling it to his chest so it could melt into the steel and become part of the torrent rushing through him.

He was still holding it fast when Styrax reached him. Kohrad didn’t even look up as his father struck him with the pommel of his sword. The blow connected and Kohrad’s head snapped back from the blow, his body rocking with the impact. For an instant the fire blazed even brighter, then the flames winked out and Kohrad crashed to the floor.

Styrax sheathed his sword. A company of Cheme troops had dropped back from the fighting and encircled their lord, leaving the rest to deal with the few remaining pockets of resistance.

‘Major,’ he called to the leader of his bodyguard, ‘fetch General Gaur and a litter for my son.’

The major motioned and one of his men sprinted off towards the Bloodsworn knights. Two more soldiers started gathering spears and stripping dead bodies to gather material to make a stretcher. The others fanned out and continued to keep watch.

Styrax pulled off his helm and knelt at Kohrad’s side, placing a hand on the Skull that was now fused with the armour. It had already adopted the steel’s blood-red colour. Kohrad was still alive. Styrax sighed in relief: he had only educated guesses where the Crystal Skulls were concerned, but this time at least, he appeared to have been right. He had needed his son to be at the point of burn-out, for only then could a combination of magic and brute force put him into this deep unconsciousness. And that was necessary for the team of surgeons and mages who were ready and waiting to remove the corrupting armour from his son’s body. The Skulls were all designed to counteract the power of the Gods, and they provided a cushion of sorts against mortal blows - the Skulls didn’t make men invulnerable, they just allowed a last roll of the dice against Death, the Chief of the Gods.

As Styrax crouched there, the shallow dent in Kohrad’s helm twitched and distended before creeping back into shape. He watched it carefully. Kohrad had returned from a hunting trip with the armour, and Styrax had been unable to discover anything about it since then. Watching it repair the dent so quickly told Styrax it was ancient, Elven-made, but he could recall no text mentioning anything like this armour. He gave a grunt of curiosity as he gently eased the helm off Kohrad’s head. His son’s eyes were closed, and black hair dank with sweat stuck to his forehead. His lip was cut and a reddening graze ran over his cheek to a minor cut. There was no trace of a bruise on his temple yet, which was good - there was always the chance of bursting a vessel with a blow that hard, and few surgeons could do anything about blood leaking into the skull.

A clatter of hooves announced General Guar’s arrival. The general jumped from his horse untidily, he had never been a natural horseman, not with the legs and hooves of a goat - but right now Gaur didn’t care how awkward he looked, not with the young man he loved like a son lying like a corpse.

‘He lives?’ he growled, almost too scared to hear the reply.

‘Yes.’

The two shared a moment of relief. Gaur’s face bore a rare, brief smile.

‘I think I hit him harder than I needed, but he’s safe, I think. You have the team ready?’

‘Close enough. The mages are happy with the laboratory we found in the Chetarate Stonedun and your surgeon is at the palace.’

‘Good. Send a messenger. He should meet us at the stonedun.’

Gaur nodded, but before he could reply a voice hailed Styrax. They turned to see a party of horsemen trotting over, the white-eye mage Larim at the fore. Clearly none of them had taken part in the battle, for their robes were pristine, the discordant colours of Larat almost glowing. The major swore and snapped out an order. Soldiers immediately spread out to flank Larat’s newest Chosen.

‘Hold, he’s no part of this,’ Gaur bellowed, for his men were ready to kill anyone in Larat’s colours.

The troops froze, obedient to Gaur’s every word, and the remaining few followers of Larat screamed their last in the background while Larim trotted on, apparently unconcerned.

‘Say what you like about Larat’s Chosen,’ Styrax muttered almost beneath his breath, ‘none of them hold a grudge. They don’t have the capacity to care, not even for colleagues of twenty years.’

With the mage were two guards whose uniforms echoed those Styrax had been slaughtering, looking completely terrified as they stared around at the butchered regiments. They were hauling along a pair of bruised figures, mages who had been beaten to a pulp, though Styrax recognised the pair, part of Salen’s coterie, were not looking as dead as he’d ordered.

‘Where are the others?’ he called.

‘Dead already,’ said Larim in a jocular voice. Styrax frowned for a moment. The Chosen of Larat was looking far too cheerful around such slaughter, even for a callous bastard who cared only about his own skin. Then Styrax remembered Salen was dead just this hour past - Larim would still be intoxicated by the renewed blessing of the God of Magic. Considering his God’s utter disregard of murder, and his amusement at Salen’s death - Styrax would not forget that chuckle echoing through the streets of Thotel in a hurry - of course Larim would find the sight of his newly inherited army being slaughtered high entertainment.

‘Do you see them honouring us?’ Larim gestured around at the torches of the Chetse surrounding them. Atop the black bulk of the Lion Guard’s barracks were more than a hundred such torches, and at least a handful could be seen in every other direction. ‘A ring of fire, perhaps they are welcoming us by echoing our homeland?’

‘Perhaps.’ Styrax was in no mood to engage in foolish banter. Larim had disobeyed his orders by coming here, and Kohrad needed attention as soon as possible. Styrax reminded himself to be polite for the moment; he didn’t need the distraction of another fight. ‘My Lord, I assume you have a good reason to be here?’

‘My lord,’ repeated Larim, pleased with the sound of his new honorific. The Hidden Tower was set in the remote north of the Ring of Fire, so Larim, even though Salen’s Krann, had enjoyed neither lands nor actual rank before Salen’s death. ‘My reasons are good, yes. As you ordered, I was dealing with Salen’s coterie. Then something curious happened that you need to take note of.’

Styrax gave an exasperated hiss. Behind Larim he could see the two Cheme soldiers returning with a rough drag-litter. Ignoring the exchange between the white-eyes, they gave perfunctory bows and hurried over to Kohrad. Styrax turned to Gaur and leaned close, so as to not be overheard. ‘Go ahead with Kohrad - take the regiment as escort. If this turns out to be important and I don’t catch you up, don’t wait. I want to know how this armour is exerting its influence over him. If we don’t break the link now, either he will die, or he will wake to the armour past any chance of control, and we will never get this chance again. I do not intend for either to happen.’

The general grunted in assent and together they lifted Kohrad onto the cradle while the soldiers brought over a horse to attach it to. Leather straps went around his chest and waist to hold Kohrad onto the cradle but they had to bend his knees to ensure his feet didn’t drag.

His son looked suddenly frail, ashen in the weak light. Styrax remembered Kohrad as a child, an energetic sprawl of whirling limbs, storming through Crafanc’s rooms with his lionhounds. His mother, Selar, was also a white-eye - they could breed only with their own kind - yet she had proved a remarkably attentive parent. It had broken Selar’s heart when her cherished son effectively chose his father over her; after years of his mother’s unconditional love, it was to Styrax that Kohrad had turned.

Through his childhood Kohrad had been in perpetual motion, rarely able to remain stationary. Even as an adult he would pace and gesture, brimming with childish energy and wicked humour. And now he lay there with slack lips and vacant eyes: to see Kohrad like this chilled Styrax’s heart, more than any wound he’d received.

Reluctantly he lifted the drag-cradle and hooked it up to the waiting horse’s saddle. Gaur gave him a nod and led the horse away, clearly intending to walk beside Kohrad all the way. Styrax took one last look and left his friend to take charge, a rare flicker of fear in his heart as he returned his attention to Larim. Whatever concerns he had, he couldn’t show the ambitious young white-eye a trace of weakness. Larim might begin to think he would succeed where Salen failed.

‘The young lord is badly hurt?’

‘He will recover,’ Styrax growled in reply, glaring at Larim until the younger man shifted his gaze from Kohrad’s prone form. ‘You had something important so show me?’

‘Ah, so I did.’ Larim coughed and gestured to his two guards, who dragged the prisoners from their saddles. Each had his hands bound with white cord with some sort of enchantment woven into the thin rope. Styrax could just make out the glittering silver thread that held the magic. Larim took one by the arm and dragged him over to where Styrax was standing.

‘I was following your orders exactly - quick simple deaths, with no experimentation or creativity. A waste of perfect subjects, in my opinion, but I understood your reasoning. Consequently, I was surprised to observe the following.’

He whipped a thin dagger from his belt and slammed it into the man’s chest. The man gave a high-pitched shriek and convulsed in pain. Larim frowned at the sound and jolted the man, as though to admonish him. The man gasped, then went limp, passed out from the pain and died quickly.

‘Normal thus far?’ commented Larim, as though conducting an experiment in front of a flock of acolytes. Styrax nodded, managing to contain his curiosity. The Chosen of Larat was doing nothing to the man. Styrax could sense no force, nor any charm that would prevent death, or even make that death notable. The only thing he suspected of Larat’s Chosen was that he was enjoying the chance to provide Styrax with some instruction, and that wasn’t exactly a surprise.

‘But observe,’ Larim continued, pulling the dagger back out of his victim. A gout of blood sprayed from the corpse over the base of the pillar Kohrad had been attacking. With a fastidious sniff, Larim released the body and stepped back. The dead mage swayed and his knees buckled, limbs and neck limp all falling limp, but somehow he remained upright.

‘You’re right,’ said Styrax, ‘that is curious.’ He tasted the air. The Plain of Pillars was thick with the stench of death, but suddenly the odour had risen, heavy in his throat. Styrax recognised the sensation: this was necromancy, without doubt, but the source eluded him. He felt the rare sensation of being intrigued.

‘Salen put some form of necromantic charm on his coterie? But no, I assume if that were the case you’d look a little less immaculate.’

‘You would be correct in that assumption, my Lord.’ Larim stepped back half a pace to give the corpse a little more room. His expression was one of calculating interest, rather than concern. Styrax again reached his senses out, to be certain this was no elaborate trap. He could feel nothing of the power that would be required normally, but there was something unusual. A presence of some kind? He didn’t know of any daemon that could enter a corpse without some form of assistance.

‘Larim?’ rasped the dead mage. There was an echo to the voice, as well as the bubbling of air though a ruined windpipe.

‘I’m here,’ was the reply, laced with a vague amusement.

‘I cannot see you.’

‘That’s because your head’s hanging down at the ground.’

‘You wish to gauge my strength? So be it, you are but a child after all.’

There was no emotion in the voice. Styrax couldn’t tell whether the being was angry or amused at the game Larim was playing. Controlling the muscles was difficult for a daemon, and clearly the Chosen of Larat had broken the corpse’s neck to find out how powerful a being they were dealing with.

With jerking movements the dead mage’s head was forced to an upright angle, tongue lolling and eyes dead. ‘You have found Lord Styrax as I asked. Good.’

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’ Styrax enquired.

Larim turned to face Styrax. ‘I believe this is your friend, not mine.’

Styrax felt a chill on his skin. Was he being accused of something? Had Larim proof that Styrax had made a pact with a daemon? If so, why confront him here, surrounded by Styrax’s troops?

He looked at the dead mage. ‘Well, corpse, are you a friend of mine?’

‘A friend? No. A loyal subject of course.’

‘Loyal subject?’ Styrax narrowed his eyes, thinking frantically, then cried, ‘Amavoq’s rage; Isherin Purn? I’d assumed you were dead - we’ve heard nothing from you in two years.’

‘I am honoured you remember me.’ The voice lacked any emotion, but Styrax could imagine it now, the mocking, wheedling lilt, Purn’s thin lips over-forming each syllable in almost obscene pedantry. The necromancer was an unpleasant, rat-like figure, alternating wildly between ridiculous scheming and depraved experiments.