Tom Lloyd: The ragged man

Their goal was in sight.

Seeing the defenders' line torn open, Styrax allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. A rabble of frantic soldiers stood between him and the mage's platform, but behind him he could hear his Bloodsworn and the remaining Reavers making their presence felt. And away over the moor he could feel the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn coming closer, the beat of his hooves echoing in Styrax's mind. He ran forward, crackling bands of energy wrapping his sword, eager to be unleashed at the mage ahead.

As though in response, the ground began to rumble again, faster and more urgent this time, and above him the air roiled, tinted red – by blood, or magic? Styrax couldn't tell; the air was suffused with both. All he could see around him was frantic movement and swirling dust, the chaos of war – and he its beating heart. He screamed, and pushed them on, one last drive to the heart of the enemy's defences, to break them before Karkarn's Mortal-Aspect could get to them.

Daken rolled in the blood-spattered dirt, his fingers stiff around the handle of his axe. The sky turned from pink to black as he forced himself onto his back and discovered his left arm was broken. He couldn't feel the fingers of that hand – couldn't see if he even still had his hand in the butcher's mess surrounding him. His ribs felt like they were on fire, and the memory of a steel-bound shield being smashed into his side flashed across his mind. The Land was silent around him, other than a constant, dull note that rang in his ears, filling his head.

Daken looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were rolling high above; he felt their cool touch on his skin. The pain in his side receded as a voice drifted closer. He didn't know the words, but the voice was girlish. Daken blinked, not comprehending, as the voice gradually drew closer, until she was whispering into his ear. He felt her fingers on his skin, and when he flinched, he felt a fresh searing pain down his ribs.

'It is time,' the girl whispered, her voice laden with breathy, seductive promise. 'Strike now, my precious.'

Daken felt her hands underneath him, lifting him up until his feet were underneath him once more. Shapes blurred across his vision, all meaningless, until he suddenly saw a face, one like his own, who stared at Daken in surprise, frozen in the moment of lifting his helm from his head, spilling black-red hair onto his shoulders.

Daken felt a beast snarl in his belly and his fingers tightened about his axe. He wrenched it forward, dragging the heavy weapon up from the ground one last time to hold it high above his head. The other white-eye let his helm fall again, and it was as if both men moved in slow motion as Daken let his axe fall, inexorably, and it slammed down high on the side of the man's helm, and the steel crumpled like tin under the enormous force of the blow.

Daken felt the shock of impact in his arm as the white-eye's head snapped downward; he was dead before he hit the ground. Daken stumbled forward, his feet falling from underneath him, then the girl's hands were under him again and he felt her pulling his body past the dead white-eye, over the bloody earth until the ground disappeared beneath his feet and he was falling into darkness…

'Coran, go!' the king yelled at the top of his voice, startling Doranei. The Menin in front of him tripped on a corpse underfoot and he dropped his guard to catch himself. Doranei cracked his shield into the man's temple with such force it shattered what was left of the frame. He shook the useless pieces from his arm and looked around for Coran.

The big white-eye had dropped from the rampart and was heading for the reserve division of Kingsguard, standing ready in the centre of the fort.

'Your Majesty,' Doranei shouted, 'where's he going?'

'Styrax has broken the line,' the king replied, standing still for a heartbeat as he assessed the assaulting troops once more. 'Someone must try to cut him off from his troops.'

The fort was a scene of horror, no scrap of ground untouched by the gore of mutilated men, and the screams of the dead and dying rose and fell in fearful cacophony. Doranei grabbed a discarded shield from the ground, only to discard it again when he saw an arm still snagged in the handles. As a Chetse warrior struggled up what remained of the ripped-apart rampart wall, even that elite warrior looked drained by the effort. Doranei flicked the shield, arm still attached, at the Chetse to slow him, then stabbed the man in his face, slicing a bloody furrow through his cheek.

A moment later Doranei felt his foot go from underneath him. He skidded on a blood-slicked log and crashed heavily on the ground. The king, seeing him fall, moved to cover him – and stepped into an arrow that caught him high in the shoulder, pitching him backwards onto the ramp to the ground.

Doranei gave a shout of horror and forced himself upright, realising the effect such a sight would have on the defenders, but Veil had seen too, and beat him to it. The King's Man pulled the ensorcelled axe from Emin's unresisting grip, snapped the shaft of the arrow, and helped him over to a standard pole he could use to support his weight.

Three Chetse, emboldened by the sight, surged over the rampart wall, but Doranei was ready and charged into them, his sword cutting a dark path through the stinking air. Two were killed cleanly; he caught the down-swing of the third Chetse's axe on his sword and kneed him in the balls, following that up with an elbow that knocked him over, and swiftly finished him off.

'Keep the king safe!' Veil yelled as he took up position beside Doranei. Blood was flowing freely down the side of his face. 'If he falls they'll crumble,' he said more quietly.

Over the clatter and crash of battle Doranei heard a roar from the reserve Kingsguard as Coran led them out into a slaughter every bit as bad as the one they'd just left. Veil nudged him and pointed at what looked like a cavalry battle, and both men felt a sudden surge of hope: it looked like General Lopir had got around and was tearing through the light Menin cavalry.

A gust of cool wind blew across the ramparts, and Doranei felt a few spots of rain. Strangely, the patter of water seemed to wash away his fears, and he felt a swell of elation. On his left, Suzerain Derenin, the Lord of Moorview, cleaved into a man's neck. The nobleman was caked in blood and filth, and his arm sagged under the weight of his notched, broken-tipped sword, but from somewhere he found the strength to lift it again and meet the next attacker.

Doranei checked his monarch was still standing, then, shouting incoherently, he threw himself back into the fray with renewed strength. He dropped to one knee to slash across a Chetse's belly, catching him under the breastplate, and the man fell, staring down in disbelief as his guts spilled into the churned-up mud – until Veil clouted him across the face and sent him tumbling down the gouged slope.

Behind them one of the battle-mages cast another lance of fire into the crowd of attackers, but they were exhausted and the fire barely sizzled as it hit.

Doranei felt a fine mist of rain on the exposed parts of his face, and unbidden, a memory rose in his mind: the scent of the ocean, rolling in over Narkang's streets, and in that moment he felt the strength of the nation behind him as King Emin's words blossomed to life in his heart.

One way or another, he realised, it ends now.

Coran raced ahead of the Kingsguard, ignoring the nearest Menin as he pounded towards the heart of the Bloodsworn regiments. A flood of green and gold followed him as five hundred Narkang elite, fresh to the battle, sprinted to keep up. The few Menin trying to work their way around to the fighting on the other side were cut down in moments, and the disordered flank of the Bloodsworn disintegrated as the Narkang soldiers smashed into it.