Tom Lloyd - The Dusk Watchman

When he found it, Isak hesitated for the first time, the raging fire in his veins dimming as he recognised that one, even in the weak half-light. The lizard-like daemon was scuttling low to the ground, circling around Mihn while trying to keep out of the reach of Eolis. Isak hurled the weapon through the air and it embedded itself deep into the daemon’s scaled tail. The white-eye screamed, as much with fear as hatred, as he ran forward and dived on top of the daemon. It twisted around to meet him, snapping at his face, but Isak caught it under the frill of spines around its neck and forced its head away.

The daemon tried to curl up instinctively, bringing up two pairs of legs to rake Isak and drive him away, but he ignored the assault and grabbed the nearest limb. With a great roar he summoned his unnatural strength and hauled back on its leg, the muscles of his huge shoulders bulging almost to bursting point as he pulled as hard as he could, until at last something gave.

The daemon shrieked in agony as Isak snarled and roared at his victory. Ichor came fountaining up over them both as he ripped the leg clean from its socket.

Lost in blood-lust, Isak tossed the limb aside and reached down, grabbing the next leg and tearing that off the screeching daemon too. It convulsed and went quiet, too weak to scream now, but he didn’t stop, snapping off the next with savage ease. The daemon went limp, dead by now, but Isak continued relentlessly, placed one foot on its scaled torso and tearing the fourth leg from the daemon.

This time Isak realised there was no more gushing ichor, and he registered it was dead. He retrieved Eolis and, soaked in his own blood and the many hues of daemon ichor, he sank to his knees atop the corpse of his erstwhile jailer. The humans were beginning to take their toll now, Isak’s furious assault having blunted the onrushing daemons long enough for the tattooed warriors to use their arcane advantage.

As Isak gasped for air, the last two daemons were cut down by a dozen blades and the castle grounds went quiet. He looked down at his arm, only now seeing the terrible damage the daemon’s teeth had done to it. The pain was excruciating, but after Ghenna it felt like nothing to him.

Isak let Eolis fall from his fingers and banished the sensation to the back of his mind. His belly and chest were burning and Isak looked down to see a dozen or more cuts overlaying the scars there. With one finger he traced an unsteady path over them, smearing the blood that ran from his skin. The daemon-script that had been cut into his flesh was obscured in several parts now, overlaid by new and random abuse from daemon-claws. He smiled despite the pain, and let Mihn lift his injured arm with the care of a fussing mother. Somewhere a shout went up for healers, and then was lost in the clamour of voices that became mere jagged sounds to accompany his pain.

Mihn was speaking to him, but Isak couldn’t make out the words. The small man was reaching for something to wrap around the injury, but Isak pushed him away gently and looked inside himself, trying to recall the time when the magic had rushed through his body as easily as breathing.

Reluctantly the energies came to his call and he felt a sense of calm descend as a pale light began to play over his skin. Mihn stepped back in surprise, but Isak continued to smile, even as the brightness and pain intensified. Holding his arm up to inspect it, Isak saw Doranei and King Emin, just past Mihn, both standing with mouths open as the light traced every open wound on his body, wrapping his arm in a garland of light.

The stink of daemons was suddenly overlaid by burning flesh and pain enveloped his entire body, searing through everything, and at last he cried out, briefly, before succumbing. Isak felt the Land lurch underneath him and fall away, and in its place came darkness. There, blessedly, the pain was only a memory lost among many.

Witchfinder Shanatin glanced back at his companions and felt a renewed flush of fear. His hand went to his mouth and without even realising he started to gnaw again at the raw mark on one knuckle. His mind remained entirely on the soldiers behind him. He told himself they were the ones who should be afraid, but it did no good; his own fear only burgeoned. Luerce had reassured him when he gave the fat witchfinder his orders, but now he was alone in the depths of night surrounded by armed fanatics.

No, not alone: never alone in the shadows.

As Shanatin turned back to the deserted street ahead he accidentally scuffed his foot on the cobbles. The sound echoed off the surrounding buildings before he managed to catch his balance again. His heart chilled as he peered timorously behind himself and caught Chaplain Fynner’s thunderous expression; he only just managed to stop himself bursting into a torrent of apologies, which would have enraged the chaplain even more.

Behind the white-haired chaplain were three full squads of troops, two of regular infantry in heavy armour and one of witchfinders. Shanatin wasn’t marching amongst his fellows because he had no spark of ability himself. Those discovered among the rank and file — there were always a few — were transferred to the witchfinders, and the regular troops considered the regiment to be full of misfits and madmen under the command of spies, reporting as they did to the Serian, the Order’s intelligence branch.

The Knights of the Temples would not use magic in battle, but they knew its power full well, and pooled the limited power of its witchfinders to deflect their enemies’ efforts. As they were about to arrest one of their own for being a secret mage, they needed all the defences they could muster.

Fynner caught him up and grabbed Shanatin by the arm. ‘Keep yourself together, man,’ the chaplain hissed. ‘There’s no place for cowards in the Devout Congress — not that it will matter, if your information about Captain Perforren proves inaccurate.’

Fynner was two decades older than Shanatin, but he was more than his match physically. It was clear the priest was comfortable in armour and knew how to use the sword on his hip, while the closest Shanatin had come to battle was the regular beatings he took from anyone who took exception to his face.

‘Sorry, Father,’ Shanatin whispered meekly, and cringed until Fynner let go.

They were marching down a backstreet in the eastern district of Akell, the quarter of the Circle City ruled by the Knights of the Temples. Considering the Devout Congress now dominated Akell there should have been no need for stealth, but their numbers remained few; those who had not been disarmed by the Menin had been conscripted into the invasion of Narkang or lost their weapons when the armoury burned.

‘Just don’t make any more noise,’ Fynner said as he waved over the captain commanding the troops. ‘We’re almost at the meeting point, and we’ve still the best part of an hour to wait. Captain, position your squads out of sight — that warehouse, I think, and have some on the other side of the main road so they can cut off any escape. Remember, hiding his abilities as a mage while being promoted to his position of trust is a capital offence under the Codex of Ordinance. We want to capture Captain Perforren alive for him to face trial, but he’ll be desperate to escape, so use whatever force is necessary. As for Sergeant Timonas, I don’t give a damn about one corrupt witchfinder. Taking him alive for interrogation is preferable, but it’s unlikely he’ll have any useful information for us.’

Shanatin had to stifle a smile at the idea of Sergeant Timonas under questioning. Fortunately the gloom of night hid his reaction and Fynner only paused at the movement, not bothering to waste any more time on him.

‘You’ll stick beside me,’ Fynner ordered. ‘You’ll only get in the way otherwise. If Timonas arrives first I will want you to confirm his identity.’