Tom Lloyd: The ragged man

Coran was still ahead, battering a path through the enemy, swinging his mace about his head, letting its great weight crush armour and skulls alike. He was less encumbered than the Bloodsworn, and strong enough to fell a man with every blow, despite their heavy armour. Those few who managed to strike back at him found their swords glancing off his armour as Coran twisted and turned, never staying still, never giving them more than a glimpse of any vulnerable part of his body.

The Kingsguard caught him up and drove like a cavalry wedge into the slower-moving knights, knocking them aside, even wrestling them to the ground to get them out of their way as Coran led the charge to the Cheme infantry. The enemy were reeling from the speed and ferocity of their assault, Coran's wordless rage echoing in their ears as the Kingsguard followed him joyously into the teeth of the battle.

The white-eye plunged the spiked tip of his mace down into a man's neck and felt the armour over the collar-bone snap and buckle. The mace snagged on the armour as he tried to withdraw it, distracting him for long enough for an axe to crash into his shoulder. He grunted at the pain as the black-iron was unable to withstand the full force of the blow, spun around and used the vambrace on his left arm to bludgeon the knight in the side of the head, knocking the man into a Kingsguard, who finished him.

A flash of agony lanced through his injured shoulder as Coran hauled back on his mace, still trying to free it, but a Bloodsworn lashed out at him and he was forced to dodge to the side. Swearing furiously, the huge white-eye kicked at the head of his mace in frustration, and it flew up from the corpse in a spray of blood – just as a Menin knight took advantage of his momentary lack of concentration.

But Coran was faster than the Bloodsworn, and he lunged forward before the knight could strike again and punched right through his cuirass.

Something struck him on the side of the head, and Coran wheeled and swung out blindly. He hit something, but couldn't see what, then he felt a burst of pain in his ankle and toppled like a tree, crashing onto his back. He lay there a moment, stunned, waiting for the final blow – then he saw movement surging past: the Kingsguard had overrun him.

Someone grabbed his arm and helped Coran up, and he shouted thanks without looking to see who it was, hobbling forward as fast as he could, anxious to rejoin the fight. A bright light exploded through the air, splitting through two Kingsguard in a fountain of blood, and finally Coran saw the one he'd been seeking. The pain faded away, now a distant memory, as something stirred deep within him. He tasted the air, and felt his teeth bare in a savage grin at the stink of blood and guts all around. He'd been born and bred for war, but now the bloodlust receded in Coran's mind and he recognised the moment he had been waiting for all his adult life. This eclipsed Ilumene, and any other unfinished business. This was what he'd been created for.

He absentmindedly jabbed the butt of his mace into a soldier who appeared in front of him, knocking the man flying, just as Lord Styrax dismissively turned away from him and raised a misty-grey shield just in time to stop a white ball of fire from Cetarn on his earthen platform. Coran reversed his mace and stabbed the spike down into the soldier's head, his eyes still firmly fixed on Styrax, while a low growl built in his throat.

A short Menin clutching an axe jumped between them and aimed for Coran's ribs, but the white-eye swayed out of the way. At last he tore his eyes from the huge white-eye lord. He wrenched his mace up and caught the short Menin soldier a glancing blow on his shoulder, which knocked the man off-balance. Coran kicked his near leg out from under him, dropping the Menin. A tall soldier ran to save his officer, but Coran swung at his face, smashing away both helm and jaw in a burst of blood. The short Menin took advantage of the death of his trooper to stab Coran in the thigh with the spike of his own axe, while the white-eye was fending off blows from elsewhere.

Coran howled and staggered away, and the Menin, still grimly clutching onto his axe, found himself pulled to his feet. Coran grabbed the man's arm and yanked him closer before he punched him in the face with the mace. The Menin's head snapped back, falling limp, and Coran shoved the man into his next attacker, but not in time to prevent an axe hitting his injured arm. He lurched sideways, only to be caught from the other side. This time stars burst before his eyes. He was drunk with pain, remaining on his feet through sheer force of will as he fended off blows from all sides. A white-visored Bloodsworn ran in for the kill, and after stabbing him in the groin, Coran picked him up and tipped him onto a pair of infantrymen, knocking them to the ground. He let the momentum of his blow carry him around, barely seeing the next soldier as he caught him in the chest, throwing him backwards and into the man behind. Coran stabbed him in the face as a spear drove deep into his side, and he turned, screaming and swinging his mace down in one last killing stroke.

The weapon slipped from his grip and agony ripped up his spine. His left leg buckled as he reached for the next Menin and he slipped to one knee. His vision was already blurring as something struck him in the back of the head. He never saw the axe swinging up to meet his falling neck.

Styrax sensed the troops behind him being driven back, but still he didn't turn. Riotous energies were turning the air scorching hot – the mage had a Skull, that was clear, and whoever it was, he knew he would not survive the day; he was letting the power within the Skull run rampant, and channelling such a vast stream of energy meant he was burning out his own brain at the same time.

The sensation sparked incandescent fury in Styrax's belly. He'd felt this before, when the Farlan bastard had killed his son. He marched on, head down as he kept his defences up, barely seeing his men around him being torn apart by the blistering rage in the air. Styrax tightened his grip on his sword. He was unable to counter-attack without weakening his shields or scorching his own mind. He fought for every step, like fighting a swift current, but step by step he closed on the hillock. The air screamed and ripped before his eyes, burst white and gold like the heart of a star, until suddenly he was there, taking the sloped side of the platform in one stride.

The energies winked out, vanishing instantaneously, and for a breathless moment the gigantic white-eye and the mage faced each other. The mage was a big man himself, the size of a normal white-eye, but his face was withered, the veins in his neck bulged out, and his skin was as white as his hair. As Styrax met the man's tortured gaze, the mage's hair crumbled to ash. The Lord of the Menin raised Kobra high, and with an almighty effort, he cleaved the mage's body in two, from left shoulder to right hip.

Styrax felt the Land slow about him, a hush descending over the slaughter. The mage's Crystal Skull hovered before him, waiting for the white-eye to claim his prize. He turned about to face the fort, which was being slowly engulfed by his soldiers. At the foot of the platform Reavers and Bloodsworn – the few dozen men left – were desperately trying to resist the Kingsguard, while the greater bulk of the Cheme legion on his left were readying themselves for a counter-attack.

Lightning split the sky as his fingers closed about the Skull, and a sense of victory descended upon him. Up above, the heavens roared their approval, and underfoot the ground shook, echoing the vast, looming power of the clouds. Through the Skull he could feel trails of energy running through the moor, great iron chains drawing power to him through the earth. He turned lazily towards the beleaguered fort and the mages at its heart, sensing their presence like campfires in the dark.