The air was filled with people shrieking, screaming, crying, wailing, and there, somewhere on the edge of hearing, Isak thought he heard an echoing laughter. For a moment he thought it had come from inside the temple, as though Death himself was revelling in the most unpleasant sides of himself, but everyone knew Death was impa.s.sive. Pleasure didn't come into this, it was just the act itself.

Isak chided himself at being distracted and returned his attention to the terrible slaughter taking place. Within minutes the Reapers had killed more than his men had managed to take down all evening, but in this G.o.ds-inflicted chaos is was even less of a battle than it had originally been. This wasn't a desperate fight for survival, it wasn't the grim repet.i.tion of deflect, strike, kill, each soldier trying to control the growing fear inside him as they faced an unstoppable horde. This was different, this was murder, out-and-out butchery, and Isak couldn't quite believe it of G.o.ds. He could see his own revulsion mirrored in the faces of the men around him.

And in an instant, the folk of Scree returned to their senses and a great wave of pleas and prayers emanated from the mob.

An icy hand gripped Isak's heart. The minstrel's magic had been undone, and the savage desires of G.o.ds still gorged upon the minstrel's victims, thanks to the power he gave them.

The old men of the wagon-train, where Isak had grown up, always said the Reapers taught a man what he was truly afraid of. Take anyone into a Temple of Death and look at the painted images: everyone, man, woman and child, would be able to pick out that one they feared more than the others. Isak had always believed the Burning Man was his; the idea of a man aflame made his skin crawl, but as he looked into the pitiless face of the Wither Queen, even his powerful limbs trembled. The other Reapers destroyed indiscriminately, but she seemed to take more than just life. As she caressed each terrified face with her long jagged fingernails, she looked into their eyes, and it was as if her dead-grey eyes tore the souls from each mortal body, as her loathsome diseases ravaged their flesh in a heartbeat. She bestowed upon her chosen pain of years in an instant, condensed and purified into the purest agony, and it was that pain that killed her victims as much as the diseases themselves.

Isak's hand shook as the Wither Queen cast her gaze on a crowd of petrified, whimpering civilians. He wanted to howl with fear and guilt. He staggered a few steps back and turned to look at the temple. It was still and silent, the only light within coming from the two torches they had set by the arched entrance that now cast deep shadows over the interior. The high altar at the centre of the building was a solid block of darkness, untouched by the torchlight.

But I never meant this, he though through a daze as the surging energies from the Skulls howled in his ears and begged to be used. How has this happened? These men have given their lives to defend what, a grand shrine to these daemons! They will have hern told it was their duty to defend the glory of their G.o.ds, and now they see the monsters their G.o.ds really are- Or was this truly my fault? Did I do something to make them this way? Did they take something from me when they took the strength to incarnate?

'Stop them,' said a voice in his head. The scar blazed hot on his chest as he felt Xeliath's presence on his shoulder. 'They are here at your invitation, they are yours to command.'

'Xeliath?' Isak said aloud, before realising he had no need. 'Where are you? Can you see them?'

'I see them,' she said, her voice all grim purpose in his head. Her resolve calmed Isak and helped clear his mind. 'They are feeding off your strength, the power in the Skulls and the fear of your men,' She gave a small gasp. 'Isak, there's so much energy flowing through you they're feeding off you like leeches, and as it flowed over your scar, that was enough to drag me here too.'

'Can you help me?'

'1 am miles away; we're guests in a monastery outside your city of Perlir. This fight is yours alone; G.o.ds do not dream, I cannot touch them.'

'How do I fight them?'

'Face them down and cut the flow of strength. I can sense some strange flavour in the air around you. Whatever it is, it is anathema to them, 1 think. Without your help they will run like whipped dogs.' A suddenly note of urgency entered her voice and jerked Isak back to action. In the distance the screams continued.

Isak grabbed Eolis and used the sword to hold himself upright as the strength left his legs. He was intoxicated by the taste of magic filling his head.

'My Lord,' cried Count Vesna, seeing Isak totter. He ran over and grabbed an arm.

Isak looked up drunkenly into his friend's face. Vesna had removed his helm and Isak could see the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Tears of what, fear? Exhaustion? Or maybe loss for the man he'd once been...

And yet still he runs to you, still he is there to hold you before you fall, this man who thinks he's failed you. He casts off his own fear before he lets you fall, so who is it who has failed his friend?

'Hold the line,' Isak whispered, clutching Vesna's shoulder for support, willing his strength to return. Vesna, there for him despite his own troubles, and so many others: they needed a strong lord, or they were all dead.

Get up, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Isak screamed in his own mind, get up and face them, or it won't just be these men here who die. What about the rest of your troops in the city? What about the rest of the Farlan? Do you think Azaer will stop here? No, he'll continue until Tirah is as much of a husk as Scree.

'Hold the line?' Vesna said, looking up to check the wedge of surviving soldiers. Some had sunk to their knees, all were too tired to speak. Only then did the count see the men wavering fear of what was happening ruling them rather than mere exhaustion and he immediately started to bellow orders.

Isak looked around. The mobs had stopped attacking them now, and the exhausted troops looked ready to collapse. Only the sight of the Reapers, still wreaking havoc amongst the people of Scree, stopped them from all crumpling to the ground. Vesna's orders raised heads and steadied a few, and as the remaining sergeants took up the shout, Isak watched their resolve return. He knew it was crucial they stayed in line, for if they ran, the Reapers would slaughter them too. Their only chance was to remain apart from the fleeing mob, separate and in control.

'They're running,' Jachen said dully. His sword hung limp in his hand, tip trailing along the ground. It didn't look like he'd have the strength to swing it again this night; Isak was ready to pray that none of them would have to.

'Wouldn't you?'

'Shouldn't we?' Jachen asked. 'No Aspect of Death is noted for its pity, but these-'

'If you run, you'll die,' Isak said with certainty.

'Then what? We stand here and let them slaughter us?' Vesna was as tired as the rest, and hadn't the strength to protest with vehemence. He sounded resigned, as though he knew this was what Fate had in store for him.

'Not if I've got anything to say about it.'

'You can't fight the Reapers.'

'Why not?' Isak stood straight again, no longer needing the man's shoulder for support. 'There was a war once, remember? Aryn Bwr proved G.o.ds could be killed, and he gave the Land the means to do so. They'll remember; they fought at the Last Battle.'

A collective gasp from the men behind them interrupted them and Isak wheeled around to see the Soldier, sword low and head dipped, advancing towards them. His face was veiled by his lank grey hair, but Isak could see the Aspect was carefully scrutinising the mixed Farlan and Devoted soldiers.

The Aspect wore a patchwork of armour, mismatched steel plates and sc.r.a.ps of chain mail hanging off his emaciated frame. His sword arm the left, which struck Isak as strange, since most left-handed soldiers were forced to use their right was bare, apart from a steel band around the wrist. The Soldier's skin looked as pale as a corpse's, and as wasted as one of the Wither Queen's victims, hardly strong enough to wield the long leaf-bladed sword with which he had helped to ma.s.sacre the mob.

The other Reapers were still dispatching those citizens left in the plaza, chasing them down with unexpected swiftness. The Soldier was oblivious to this as he approached the temple over a carpet of carnage, the bones of the slain snapping under his weight.

'Keep your positions,' Isak said calmly. He didn't bother to raise his voice; an unnatural hush had fallen over the soldiers and every man could hear his words.

'It feeds on the fear they feel,' Xeliath reminded him, 'but remember, you look like a G.o.d to them; show no fear and you weaken it.'

With a deliberately unhurried movement, Isak pushed his way past his Farlan guards and jumped over the trench he'd carved in the Temple Plaza. He kept his eyes on the Soldier, like a sane man does on a dangerous dog. Break eye contact and you lose what little control you might have; despite centuries of breeding, it remembers that it was once a wolf.

'My Lord,' said Vesna quietly. Isak raised his shield hand in warning and the count fell silent. Whatever Vesna's objection, it was past the point of making. He'd only intervene now if he thought Isak was in danger and d.a.m.n him, he would, as well: Isak had no doubt that Vesna, broken spirit or not, would charge headlong to attack the Aspect of Death if his lord was threatened.

Is this what you do to men? Isak thought as he approached the Soldier. He could feel the pull of its presence now, the aura that Lord Bahl had worn like a mantle of authority, the glamour that Morghien had spoken of, enough to cow men into obedience. Even as he forced himself to face up to the minor G.o.d, Isak found himself having to fight the urge to kneel, to lower his gaze and make obeisance, despite the horror he fell in his heart.

Is this how the rest of them see you? Isak asked himself, remembering the battle outside Lomin, calling the storm down onto himself in Narkang, and the images seared into his memory.

This close, he could see that the Soldier was covered with blood; his boots were soaked through and the battered blade he dragged over the ground, careless of its edge, was covered in filth and gore. Isak almost gave up when he realised how much taller than he the Soldier was, but pride kept him going. He wouldn't falter now; he would meet these consequences head-on.

'Give him to me,' the Soldier growled to Isak when they were no more than four yards apart. The white-eye looked confused for a moment, then noted the Soldier's intent expression, as though the Aspect was looking straight through his flesh and into Isak's soul. As if to confirm Isak's suspicion, the Soldier sniffed the air cautiously, savouring the scent on the breeze that drifted towards him past Isak's shoulder. At the back of his mind, something stirred.

'He's mine,' Isak said simply. He watched the Aspect's dead eyes for any sign of emotion, but there was nothing.

'Give him to me,' the Soldier repeated. 'His soul is forfeit to Lord Death. We have hunted him for millennia, and no whelp will deny me this prize.' The Aspect looked past Isak, at the terrified soldiers behind him. A thin smile appeared on its lips. 'Give him to me or they will all die.'

Isak felt a rising surge of anger, and a sudden contempt. Showing your hand so easily? Threatening them just shows me you're afraid, otherwise why would you bother? You really are nothing more than Death's cruel shadow, and you're frightened of me.

'They will not die and nor will I give you my chained dragon. You have done my bidding here, and just as I summoned you, I now dismiss you. Your services are no longer needed.'

'I am your G.o.d,' the Aspect hissed, 'and you do not dismiss me.'

'My G.o.d?' Isak echoed.

He took a step forward and carefully removed his helm and hood. There was nothing he needed to hide. The Soldier stayed still.

'Nartis is my G.o.d, and like the one you serve, he does not command me. He made me; he gave me my strength and my gifts, but that doesn't mean he owns me. With these gifts I act as 1 see fit, and that includes wielding weapons, of which the Reapers were not the first.'

'Do you think you can deny me?' The' Soldier's fury was obvious now, which only confirmed Isak's hunch. 'I am a part of you; I am the incarnation of a white-eye's anger-'

'Then you are a part of me,' Isak snapped, 'but you are not all thai I am, and 1 command the anger inside me. My soul may be stained, 1 may have been born a creature of anger, but I will not let that make me a monster like you and yours.'

Carefully, deliberately, Isak sheathed Eolis and touched his fingers to his chest. 'I gave you the power to be here,' he said in a controlled voice. His fingers warmed as they rested on the Skull, the magic within a living thing. 'And that power is mine to retrieve when I choose.'

With a thought Isak took hold of the energy gushing out from the Skulls into the plaza beyond. The magic kicked and writhed under his grip, desperate to keep flowing, and for a moment he wondered if he was strong enough to control that vast stream of power. Could he dam it so that these monsters could no longer feed from it? His self-doubt disappeared in a flash as he realised Aryn Bwr was there, guiding his movements. He could feel the last king's desperation to escape that cruel, hungry gaze and allowed the dead spirit to steer his thoughts and cut the flow as easily as drawing a curtain.

To his immense satisfaction, Isak saw a flicker of surprise cross the Soldier's face, then the Aspect vanished, leaving only a set of b.l.o.o.d.y boot prints on the stone ground. In the distance he sensed the other Reapers also disappearing from the city. A smile almost crossed his face, but he caught it in time and made sure he was expressionless when he turned back to the living soldiers outside the temple.

He could see no personal consequence of summoning the Reapers; it hadn't marked his skin, like calling the storm had... but the dead lay in every direction. This was neither the place nor the time to feel pleased with himself.

Crossing the trench once more, he was greeted with awe-struck relief. Vesna and Jachen wore smiles, but Isak didn't need to heal them speak to know the smiles were forced. They'd just watched him face down the Reapers; it was too early for either to feel anything more than astonishment that they were still alive.

'My Lord,' Vesna croaked, 'you continue to amaze me.'

'Didn't expect that, eh?' Isak coughed, the exhaustion oi the evening's fighting catching up with him.

'Could anyone have expected that?' Jachen wondered. He had already removed his helm and now he started on his hauberk. His face was covered with sweat, his hair plastered flat.

'You'll get used to it,' Isak said with a smile, and made his way to the temple steps where he sank down gratefully down.

'Are you well?' Vesna asked cautiously.

'Just tired and thirsty, now that I think of it.'

The words were hardly out of his mouth before Vesna was shouting orders and what remained of the Farlan cavalry staggered for the horses still cowering in the forest of pillars of the Temple of Nartis. The animals had been ignored by both the mobs and the Reapers and though they were still unsettled by the stench of blood and guts, they were unharmed. It wasn't long before the first of the cavalry were heading towards the Temple of Vasle, where the waters still ran. If any of the Devoted objected to the sacrilege, they had the good sense to keep quiet.

The rest of the soldiers had dropped to the ground too, following their lord's lead. Vesna opened his mouth to bawl them upright again, but found himself sinking down almost without thought. Soon all the survivors were sprawled on the ground where just a short time before they'd expected to be ripped to pieces by the ravening hordes. None of them had the strength to speak. Those with pipes intact fumbled with tobacco pouches, sharing with those who had none. A scar-faced man with greying hair found it too much effort to walk the few paces back after lighting his pipe from the torch at the entrance of the temple, slumping instead on the steps a few feet from Isak. He started to puff away, then, almost shyly, offered the pipe to Isak.

The tobacco was typical soldier's rubbish; foul, black and bitter, and under normal circ.u.mstances Isak would have cursed at the evil taste, but these were not normal circ.u.mstances and he found himself almost moaning with pleasure. If it took away the stench of the dead, of blood and s.h.i.t and his own rank sweat, even for a few brief moments, then it was a blessing worthy of the temples they had defended.

For these few hundred souls sitting before the Temple of Death, amidst a slaughter the like of which none had ever seen before, the scent of bitter tobacco on the breeze would, for the rest of their lives, remain with them as something blessed.

After a few minutes, they heard a sound in the distance. Heads all around were raised as they recognised shod hooves on cobbles. Somehow, after all the chaos surrounding them, it contrived to sound near and ordered.

'That'll be General Lahk, then,' Isak muttered. He looked around; no one else seemed to be interested in getting up either. Vesna grunted in acknowledgement, but beyond that, none of them cared. Isak reached for the pipe again, nodding his thanks at the soldier, and looked out over the devastation of The Temple Plaza. So many dead and he wasn't even sure why. He'd been lured to this city for what, for this? Was he merely a complication while Azaer settled a score with King Emin? But no, that couldn't be right, because the traitorous King's Man, Ilumene, had tried to lure him there... unless that had been a bluff? Isak put his head in his hands; the effort of thinking was beyond him. All he knew was that any scores of his own had been settled, one way or another, and now he wanted to go home. There were problems enough there and he wanted no more of Scree.

Someone called his name and he forced his head up to see General Chotech walking unsteadily towards him. The general was bloodied and bruised, but his great axe rested still across his shoulders and in true Chetse fashion he paid no mind to his obvious injuries as he advanced.

'Before your army gets here, I would beg an indulgence,' he said when he reached Isak.

Isak frowned at the man. 'If you want to ask me something, I warn you I'm not in a charitable mood.'

That produced a few half-hearted laughs from the watching soldiers, but the general gravely took him at his word. 'I ask nothing more than for you to join me in prayer.'

For once, Isak was thankful he was too tired to burst out laughing, for the general would have taken it sorely amiss. Instead he gave the man a level look. 'Pray? To... to Death? After what we've just witnessed?'

'We have survived,' Chotech replied. 'We have survived when the odds were against us. Death's warlike Aspects saved us, and 1 intend to give thanks.'

Isak opened his mouth to argue, but could think of no valid reason not to. On the face of it, the general was right and, like it or not, Isak was a lord in the service of the G.o.ds. The notion alternately sickened and amused the white-eye, whose lack of piety had always been obvious, but it was not his intention to lead the Parian away from the G.o.ds. Those who did such things invariably suffered for their presumption.

He nodded dumbly to General Chotech and struggled to his feet, raising a hand to stop Major Jachen jumping up to help him. Side by side with the ageing Knight of the Temples, Isak ascended the remaining two steps and began to walk down the main aisle towards the obsidian block of the high altar.

Their footsteps echoed around the empty building, the sound rising up to the thick black rafters above where more drapes hung undisturbed by the breeze outside. The floor was uneven and Isak, looking down to avoid missing his step, realised each huge flagstone was actually a tombstone, carved to record the names and final prayers of those whose ashes were contained in urns buried underneath the floor.

Isak suddenly remembered the time he'd been taken to the Temple of Death as a child, when the notion of walking over the dead had terrified him. Now he found it strangely comforting that their presence remained for eternity in this place of calm and reflection. The hoof-beats became louder behind him, making Isak smile in the darkness. His friends had reached the Temple Plaza; they would surround him soon enough.

As they reached the altar and Isak slid his shield from his arm, he caught a blur of movement out the corner of his eyes. He had half-turned when something smashed across his chest and glanced off his breastplate. The impact drove him back against the altar, and his arms were momentarily pinned. Unable to reach for Eolis, he kicked out at a dark shape, which roared and fell against the general, twisting as it did so to punch hard into Chotech's gut. The general gave a sharp gasp and doubled over.

The attacker pulled away and in the faint light Isak saw a long blade, and felt a hot line of blood spurt across his cheek. Chotech collapsed, his legs twitching weakly, and Isak knew the man was dead.

In the darkness he couldn't make out much of their attacker, but what detail he could see was enough: a blade in each hand, a deformed, bony head, a single horn extending backwards. No human looked like that... the memory of Lord Chalat appeared in his mind. Hadn't the Chetse white-eye fought something like this when he'd interrogated Mihn in the Temple of the Sun? A soldier possessed by a daemon.

He launched himself forward and smashed an armoured elbow into its face before bringing bis knee up to its groin. He was much larger than his foe, which stood no taller than a normal Farlan, hut as it hit the ground and bounced up, Isak realised it was just as fast as he was, and it was unnaturally strong.

The attacker flew forward again; Isak caught the creature by the wrists and spun around to throw it, but somehow the creature whipped around and slammed both heels into his stomach. Isak felt a sharp pain and realised it had spiked feet. He winced as he flung the creature against the high stone altar, and as it bounced straight back at him he brought down his fist, as hard as he could, on the side of its head. The blow slowed it down enough for Isak to draw Eolis. He let it come; he had its range and speed now.

The creature snarled and shook its mane of black fur, as if clearing its wits. It had bony growths instead of hands, the length of a long dagger; that was what had killed General Chotech.

There were footsteps, and voices behind them, but Isak knew help had come too late. The creature seemed to know it too, for it wasted no time in springing forward, daggers reaching for him. Isak stepped smartly to one side and caught its left arm. Eolis cut its wrist with ease and the creature fell to the tombstone floor, howling in pain. Isak lunged forward, intending to run it through and finish this, but somehow it sensed the blow coming and rolled aside, slashing wildly up towards his face. He dodged the dagger-hands and caught the creature's forearm with his left hand, twisting it upwards and back, feeling the elbow crunch and snap. It gave a shriek of pain, but Isak knew that as long as it was still standing, it was still dangerous.

He forced it around and slammed it against the altar again, then pulled his sword back to deal the final blow. The creature pushed itself upright, the arm Isak had just broken hanging crooked and useless.

'Isak, no!' screamed a voice behind him and he caught a glimpse of Tila sprinting towards him, Jachen and Vesna on her heels. She looked terrified, but before she could say any more Isak turned back and lashed out with a foot, kicking its legs away again. The blow spun the creature off-balance and it smashed the bony ridges of its head on the altar steps as the ring of metal on metal pealed out through the temple.

The Land went quiet; the running feet behind him were dulled. Isak hesitated. Metal? He levelled his blade and took another look. He'd kicked the creature in the side of its knee, where he now saw a rough steel brace had been fitted over its trouser. His sword wavered as the creature writhed in agony and he caught sight of its twisted face. Inside his mind, Aryn Bwr spoke words he didn't recognise, and the Crystal Skull on his chest pulsed briefly.

Another blur of movement as an indistinct shadow was torn away from the creature, and a howl of fury rang out to the black-stained rafters. Isak ignored it. The creature howled, but this time it was a human sound, of fear and pain. Eolis fell from Isak's hand as he took a closer look at the man at his feet.

'Father?'

ENDGAME.

A reluctant sun rose above the horizon and began its slow climb through the cloudless skies above what had once been known as the city of Scree. The dawn light illuminated a dead place, scarred by the hand of man and now almost bereft of life. Here there was no rich warble of birds, just the occasional zip of jewel-winged beetles and darting dragonflies, and the sharp hum of less harmless insects. The city was once a warren of cramped houses with ramshackle eateries on every corner, a place where extended families lived and ate together, gossiping and arguing all the while. Now there was an unnatural quiet, broken only by the faint sigh of ash shifted by a listless breeze, and the occasional crack or crash as one of the few remaining walls fell.

The firestorm had scoured the city of anything larger, consuming the southern part with a quick and savage hunger, and burning out to leave this devastated wasteland of smoking pyres and vast mounds of rubble. In the north, a few isolated fires smouldered on. Throughout Scree the stones on the ground were still hot enough to cook on, radiating heat like a thousand ovens.

When two silent figures set out through this desolate landscape, it was the blistered ground that scorched their skin, rather than Tsatach's yellow eye. They covered the ground quickly, even the bulkier of the two, who was clad in armour. His companion wore only a black patchwork tunic and trousers, and would have looked like an ordinary traveller, were it not for the swords sheathed across his back. His face was smooth and pale where the skin wasn't tattooed, while his larger companion displayed a lifetime's acc.u.mulation of scars on his weathered skin. The strange pair walked silently, with purpose, though no casual watcher would have been able to fathom what that purpose might be. They appeared to know their route, despite the lack of discernible landmarks, almost as if a voice were whispering directions in their ear.

Once in a while Ilumene, the larger man, would pause and turn to look back. Trailing a hundred yards or so behind, like an errant child, was another figure, obviously suffering greatly from the growing heat of day. He had a sheet loosely wrapped around his head and body in a feeble attempt to protect himself from the sun. Dark, b.l.o.o.d.y scabs had formed on his exposed face, and his hands were a ma.s.s of red blisters. He held them turned inwards, trying to protect his palms, but when he tripped instinct caught him off-guard and using his hands to break his fall left him whimpering in agony. Neither Ilumene nor his companion, Venn, waited to help him. Ilumene contented himself with ensuring their follower was still within sight; beyond that they appeared not to care about him in the slightest, keeping a good distance away so they were not bothered by the sounds of his laboured breathing or cries of pain.

Almost half an hour after the first rays of dawn had touched the treetops, Ilumene decided they had arrived at their destination. The only difference to the rest of the city that anyone might have noticed was the increase in the number of charred bodies lying around. He and Venn stopped and watched the progress of the tattered man.

Jackdaw, panting hard, stopped before he reached them, pushing the now-filthy sheet back from his head for a moment to mop the sweat from his face. His pale face was emaciated; even the midnight-black feather tattoos on his cheek contrived to look ragged and crumpled after his time in Scree.