Lunging forward, he stopped the next man in his tracks with his sword, swatted aside an axe and, with a burst of fire, he drove his enemy back. The man, a Chetse, he suddenly realised, was brave: ignoring the overwhelming heat, he charged forward to drive his shoulder into Kohrad's chest. The impact knocked the white-eye back a little, but the victory was short-lived as Kohrad smashed his fist down on to the Chetse's helm and hacked at the man's ribs. The man collapsed, flames already licking at his axe-shaft and clothes. The room was his.
Kohrad started off down the corridor, then came to an abrupt halt as he felt a cold mind cut through the heat to touch his own. His father felt as if he were impervious to the power of the flames he wielded, and that reminded him of his mission. The object was somewhere above, nagging at his mind.
Reaching up, Kohrad touched the beam running across the ceiling of the corridor. That he could burn, and he used it to spread himself out around the building, cutting off the routes of escape. Once that was done, Kohrad began to consume the long drapes and polished furniture, filling rooms with magnificent sculptures of heat and light. He found a stairway and moved up floor by floor, like a wolf-pack driving its prey. He cut down some of the panicked occupants as he found them and left others cowering in corners or hiding in wardrobes. Some were on their knees, praying with shouts and fearful cries, but their frantic appeals couldn't touch him. Kohrad was born of white-eyes, untouched by the Gods and subject only to the laws of fire and light.
Reaching the top, he came to a closed hatch-door; he forced his fist up through it, but something held it closed, despite the damage. A second blow smashed the frame to pieces which fell at his feet to join the pyre. The wooden steps were burning even as he ascended into the light of day. Another Chetse struck out with his long battle-axe, before Kohrad had time to escape the confines of the hatchway, but the burning white-eye swatted the curved steel aside, jumping up on to the level floor in the next movement and hacking into the mans spine with astonishing speed.
The soldier fell screaming, but as his cries faded into the reaching
flames, Kohrad had already turned his attention to the others on the platform. No one else stepped forward to attack him, so Kohrad ignored the soldiers and focused his attention on the quivering shape of the duke.
The taste of blistered and burning fat rose up in his mind as he held out his hand to the duke. The man gibbered with terror, fingers tightening around the Skull even as his skin blistered and charred. Kohrad snapped the bones with ease, and as he prised the Skull away, he felt it cry out for his touch. With a sigh of satisfaction, Kohrad I pressed the Crystal Skull to his breast, where it fused with the armour, turning the deep colour of blood.
The flames around him danced with renewed strength as he caressed the Skull. 'So you're Destruction,' he whispered. 'I'd hoped it was you. One day you'll be mine, when we are Gods and Father has no more need for you, you'll become part of me for ever.'
He left the towering pyre without haste, leaving only the crackle of licking flames and the stench of burning flesh in his wake.
CHAPTER 1O
The knives of winter, honed on the jagged cliffs of the north, lashed at the great forest of the Spiderweb Mountains. Whispers in the night carried a restless memory of long-abandoned places, as the profane words of another Age burned once more in the hearts of the elves, the twisted descendants of those cursed by the Gods for their rebellion. Dark bargains were made, even before the seers announced a silver light shining out from the west. The first furtive figures returned to settlements that the Farlan had driven them from decades ago.
The Festival of Swords had slowly replaced the ruthless hunting parties of fifty years past as the elves retreated away from their tormentors: pageantry in place of savagery. Now the elves returned to find the Farlan watchtowers and forts in disrepair or empty, replaced by farms and villages now closer than ever to the cold depths of the forest, and exposed in the harsh autumn light.
When their first attacks met only feeble resistance, they grew bolder and more savage. The wind tore through ruined homes and carried the smoke from the pyres for miles. Even in the towns, where people hid behind the relative safety of stone walls, they could hear the drums hammering out through the night air, and guttural voices singing of pain and prophecy, of their time come again. The taste of revenge carried far on the wind.
'What do you mean by punished? General Elierl is not a child to be disciplined!' The walls shook as Bahl roared at the man sitting placidly in the centre of the room. Isak found himself leaning back from the sheer force of Bahl's anger, but the focus of that ire didn' t even twitch. Perched on a low stool, the mage mouthed the words in echo of his Lord, his hairless head dipping back and forward as though following some sort of tune in his head. The movement continued after the mage fell silent, as he cocked his head and rocked back and forth, waiting for the reply.
'General Elierl has been removed from command of Lomin's forces,' intoned the mage again after a long pause. His voice was distant, an echo from afar. Isak sat forward to take a closer look at the man, watching his movements in fascination, trying to fathom their part in the ritual. The mage continued, oblivious to the people around him. Lesarl, when pushed for information, had told Isak the movement helped the twin mages to keep in touch with each other, but the Chief Steward had given up when his explanation provoked even more questions than it had answered. Isak had never even heard of anything like this, let alone seen it in action, and it made him wonder just what else lay within the forbidding walls of the College of Magic, hidden from the eyes of all but a few and hired out to only those who could afford such wonders.
'He has been punished for his failings,' came Scion Lomin's distant reply. Every sentence was stilted, broken into pieces as one mage whispered the words to his sibling. Isak could imagine a face just like this one, pale and hairless, sitting in a high tower in Lomin, silently forming the words as he heard them. Perhaps they were even dressed in exactly the same way: an open-necked tunic showing a hairless chest, and the red and gold sash of the College of Magic around his waist.
’You had one of the tribe's oldest and most respected generals executed?'
The delay in the reply only infuriated Bahl longer. It was scarcely believable the young man in Lomin – not yet duke, however ill his father might be – would have dared do what he had just implied. Bahl began to pace around the oblivious mage until Lesarl reached out a hand to interrupt him.
My Lord, the link will not last much longer; we need information now. Whatever the boy has done can wait until you are there.' '
I did no such thing,' interrupted the mage in his slow monotone.
‘The general was removed from his position and committed suicide in his chambers that evening. We mourn his loss as you do.'
Bahl opened his mouth to bellow a reply, but stopped when Lesarl caught his arm. He turned to the mage's escort, a richly dressed man, who, though of middle age, looked older in certain ways, like most mages. Isak noted his sunken face, perhaps the first step towards becoming a withered wreck like High Priest Wetlen had been. The mage nodded his agreement with Lesarl, looking anxious for his charge as he anticipated the failure of the link.
'Scion Lomin, what forces do you have left?'
'Four spear legions and one of archers with Lomin. Divisions of each are apparently under siege in Kohm, Castle Shaidec, Vitil and Peak's Gate. We have not had news from Peak's Gate in three weeks now.'