The dead features somehow managed to convey a hint of anger that it had to crane its head up to face the white-eye. 'You bind me?' The voice was grating and harsh, bubbling its way past the still-warm blood in the body's lungs: it clearly came from the corpse, though there was a strange, distant echo.
'I bind you,' confirmed Styrax. 'I have no interest in seeing you slaughter an elite regiment, not to mention my most valuable general.'
'Your promises are empty. You offered a river of souls, yet I have had a mere handful. I think you forget with whom you have made a bargain.'
'I have not forgotten. Your river of souls is gathering, and when it comes, the dead will number in their thousands.' Styrax stared down at the corpse and felt contempt. The daemon was a prince among its kind, incredibly powerful and as old as time, but it didn't care why he wanted its help. It was content with the deluge of death and destruction Styrax had promised. Its abilities far exceeded its desire and for that, Styrax could only despise it.
'But when?' The corpse's slack lips quivered.
Styrax could hear the hunger in that inhuman voice. 'Soon. We've cleared a path to Destenn. Soon the destruction will begin. If we are to win a decisive battle we need to catch the Chetse army out in the open and under-strength. Your servant had better have done its job correctly, or Lord Charr will not march out as soon as he hears of our presence.'
'Lord Charr weeps in the dark place; he cares not for his tribe. What inhabits his body loves battle. It will need no encouragement.'
'Then skulls will be heaped at every crossroads and your name spoken over them.'
At that the corpse gave some perverse representation of greedy laughter. Styrax felt bile rise in his throat. He had to resist the urge to draw Kobra and remove the creature's head. Instead he nodded along. He would not need to pander to this obscenity much longer. Already he had the strength to defy it; soon he would make it fear him, and beg to fulfil his every whim. Soon it would have nothing he could need.
'And in the north?' Styrax pressed.
The haunted does not sleep; the cries of the lost ring out through the night. He has sent the boy west and searches in forbidden places. He will do as you intend.'
The boy has gone west? Do any in the mountains remain bound to your name?'
Those who have sworn cannot escape their bonds. You would do well to remember that. To forswear is to draw down our wrath.'
Then fill their dreams with glory and riches. If both of the Chosen are far from home then the Farlan are ripe for revolt. Find a man who would be king.'
'Tear down the temple and speak my name there.' The corpse sagged as Styrax began to drive the daemon from its host. Styrax nodded his agreement and caught the daemon's final words, almost too faint to be heard. 'Then tonight, Lomin will dream of his crown.'
The clicks and buzzing of night's creatures filled Styrax's ears as the air around him returned to normality. He felt his body tremble with the power he'd expended. To raise a daemon was no great effort, but they were otherworldly and aside from the march of time; to keep it long enough to hold a conversation required strength, more each time.
He turned to the fire and sank down, his white hand almost touching the flames as he sought to absorb its warmth and purge the daemon-cold. Almost as weak as an old man, he waved in the direction of the wyvern. With a snarl, the creature scrabbled to its feet and fell upon the dead soldier, scimitar claws making light work of the man's leather armour. Soon savage teeth were tearing chunks of the boy's flesh away.
'I see you, shade,' called Styrax wearily, keeping his eyes fixed on the fire. 'You take a great risk, spying on a prince of your kind. I wonder why.'
'My kind?’ The voice was entirely unlike any daemon Styrax had previously encountered. 'And yet not. I hardly feel kinship to such an introverted creature, so unable to see beyond its own needs and obsessions it could almost be human.'
Despite himself, Styrax laughed, a cold, weary humour. This was a daemon after his own heart. 'Then why are you here? Do you wish to bargain with me?'
'I require no covenant, but perhaps you would appreciate a warning. The Farlan whelp will not be the only one to return to a cold reception.'
Styrax considered the words, and the voice that spoke them. From the corner of his eye he could see nothing more than a shadowy outline. The voice, though rich and cultured, sounded both ancient and sinister.
'And who gives me this warning?'
'An observer of events. An approver of ambition. He who is hidden conceals more than you might assume.'
'How much do you observe?'
'Much. "Inflames, destruction found."'
Styrax stiffened. 'That's a line from the prophecy of Shalstik?'
Inside, he was raging. If one daemon, however unusual, could discover his secrets, then others could, others that might be bound to his enemies. Styrax was not yet strong enough to challenge the Gods, and ownership of a Crystal Skull was not encouraged, even among their greatest Chosen. There was no reply. CHAPTER 28
Doranei idly scratched at the stubble on his cheek, keeping his eyes low and disinterested as he eavesdropped on the next table. He sat alone in a dark corner of the inn, sipping weak beer and occasionally checking the scarf had not slipped from his neck. The bar was warm and the tightly wrapped scarf had attracted some attention, but Doranei didn't have the sort of face that encouraged questions. The next table was occupied by a group of farmers discussing the topic that occupied everyone else in this town: word of Lord Isak's imminent arrival had come two days ago, and he was expected this evening. Tongues were wagging.
'Can't see that one sending the Krann away if they've fallen out. He's a mad bastard when he's roused-'
'They all are,' interrupted another. From Doranei's brief observation of the trio it seemed this speaker had been born surly. Only bitter little miseries had passed his lips throughout the evening. 'A traveller told me that the Krann was too ashamed to leave his tent for three days after the battle of Lomin. Even for a white-eye he'd fought like a blood-crazed daemon.' The man was bent over his drink, staring into the near-empty pot with a resigned air.
The inn was hardly the best this small town had to offer. The wooden walls were cracked and warped; the stench of sweat and mould and old smoke and spilt beer filled the air. Doranei was well used to sleeping under the stars or in a stable, but the ingrained grime nagged at his mind.
Face it, Doranei, he thought with a wry smile, the king's made a snob of you. This is the sort of tavern you spent far too long in when you were younger.
'So why's he coming, then?' urged the youngest of the three. The dirt wasn't yet ingrained into his skin like the others. A spark of
interest in the Land remained yet.
Doranei knew the answer. Underneath his scarf he was concealing the bee emblem. He was dressed in studded leather and mail, but that was common enough here; no one would take much note of a soldier. The bee device would mark him out as a King's Man. Dark things were whispered about the King's Men, rumours that they were above the law, which was actually one of the few truths told about them. With the bee in full sight, honest men would go silent in his presence and wonder what indiscretions they might be accused of. No magistrate would dare touch Doranei, no matter what the crime, in case it bore the royal sanction. It would be futile to explain to people that the king demanded absolute selflessness of service from his men. He punished corruption savagely – and had an uncanny knack of rooting