Tom Lloyd - The Twilight herald

A black-cowled monk pushed past them, an edged mace in each hand, and Isak took a moment to look around. He saw Count Vesna trading blows with Duke Certinse nearby, and nearer still, one of the Ghosts was savagely attacking Suzerain Tildek. In the chaos, Isak couldn't see who it was, but as he deftly worked an opening in the suzerain's defence and knocked Tildek reeling, there was no doubt the soldier outmatched the nobleman.

Isak had no time to look further as a hurscal came at him head-on. The white-eye slashed at the man's head but missed; another hurscal came in from his left and as the two attacked Isak together, words came unbidden to Isak's throat and he felt magic flow out through Eolis. The sword traced a path of blinding light that made both attackers cry out and cover their eyes. The unnatural edge did the rest.

Isak sensed rather than saw a tall knight with a swan emblazoned on his chest just as he launched a furious attack. Hacking at Isak with a gleaming broadsword, the knight forced Isak into defensive mode, warding off the blows, until Toramin, circling clockwise, managed to shove the knight's own mount off-balance and Isak was able to get a blow in himself. Eolis cut the knight's broadsword in two, then con-tinued on down into the man's peaked helm. The knight went rigid, then flopped to the floor as Isak withdrew.

Looking around, Isak saw the enemy break and run, but beyond them was a ring of archers with bows ready. The fleeing men came to a sudden halt when a single arrow hit the lead knight with an audible thud. For a moment, all they could hear were the cries of the dying,

then the men, broken, threw down their weapons and pulled off their helms.

'My Lord,' called Vesna from somewhere behind. Isak pulled his own helm off and hung it back on his saddle as he turned to the count.

'A present, my Lord,' Vesna continued, prompting laughter from those around him. Beside him, alternately scowling and grimacing with pain, was Karlat Certinse. The young duke clutched at his sword arm as blood ran freely from the elbow joint. He had no helm and his face was streaked in blood and mud, his long black hair matted.

'Get that wound bound, then his hands and mouth,' Isak ordered, I want him alive. Better to string him up in Tirah than on a field somewhere.' Isak nudged his horse closer and saw a flash of fear in Certinse's eyes before hatred masked everything. Beneath the blood and mud and the purpling bruise swelling the duke's left cheek, he looked almost absurdly young. What are you, Isak thought, a boy in a man's armour, playing a game you don't really understand, or the calculat¬ing traitor I'm going to hang you as? In this life, does it matter?

Isak lifted the duke's chin with his finger and looked into his eyes. 'What's more,' he said quietly, 'I shall hang your mother beside you, and any other member of your treacherous family that my Chief Steward takes a disliking to on the morning I sign the warrants.'

The only sound that escaped Certinse's lips was a hiss of pain as a Ghost roughly removed the armour obscuring his wound and tied a tourniquet around the upper part of his arm.

Isak slipped from his horse and began to check the soldiers mill-ing around. Those few knights who had been slow to surrender had been herded into a circle and battered to their knees. Everywhere he looked, men lay contorted in agony, screaming, or moaning softly. A pair of Ghosts appeared on either side of him as he knelt beside one of the injured on the ground, a Lomin hurscal. Isak gently pulled away the helm to reveal a man about Vesna's age, his eyes wide with fear and pain as he huffed in short sharp breaths, his hands awkwardly clasped about the broken stub of a lance protruding from his side. The bubbling rasp indicated the head of the lance was embedded in the man's lung. There was no hope for him. Taking the man's head in his massive hands, Isak ended the pain as quickly and gently as he could.

He looked around at his cream-liveried guards, their emerald dragons easy to pick out. 'Carel?' he called, a flutter of anxiety in his heart. He spun around, seeking the veteran's familiar build, but his old friend was nowhere in sight. Isak stood and took a few steps forward, looking around in increasing panic.

'Here, my Lord,' one of the Ghosts called, waving Isak over to where he knelt. Despite the lack of urgency in the man's voice, Isak ran the twenty yards to his side, a heavy feeling in his gut. Before he got there, he heard a familiar voice swearing, 'careful, you ham-fisted bastard!'

Isak smiled with relief as he reached Card's side. It was the quiet ones you had to worry about. The soldier was easing off Carel's cuirass, having already cut away the arm section. There wasn't much blood; Isak guessed it might be a bad break. Crouching down, he picked up the arm section and ran his finger over the split and dented plate just above the elbow. It had been badly mangled.

'Fell off your horse, did you, old man?'

'Piss on you. It was a mace and you know it,' snapped Carel in reply. He winced again as the cuirass snagged on his tunic. 'Not everyone's made of iron, you shit-brained lump. Oh Gods, that hurts! Someone find me a flask of something strong.'

The soldier tending his commander pulled a knife from his belt to cut away the sleeve. Carel's once-powerful arm looked white, except for the deep sickly bruise that had begun to reveal itself. Isak could see from the angle that it was a nasty break, and the colour made him think that Jeil would have his work cut out to save the arm at all.

'Gods, it doesn't look good,' said the soldier, unthinkingly.

'I know that, you bastard,' Carel spat. 'Nartis be blessed it's my left.'

'Lord Isak,' called a booming voice and Isak turned to see the man Vesna had identified as Cardinal Disten advancing towards him. He was indeed dressed as the chaplain he had once been but, as he neared, Isak could see the cobalt-blue hems of his robe were faded and patched. The cardinal himself was an imposing man – several years older than Carel, Isak guessed, but standing over six feet tall, and still with a young man's bulk. His long beard and the straggly remains of his hair were completely grey and his lean, lined face bore more than a few scars. Only his eyes belied the impression of age, burning fiercely from beneath thick dark eyebrows.

'My Lord, it's an honour to meet you,' Cardinal Disten said as he dropped to one knee. Isak could see the moon-glaive hooked to his belt was still dripping blood onto the torn grass.

'As it is you. But if you'll excuse me, I'm a bit busy for pleasantries right now.' A groan from Carel made him turn back to the injured man.

'Isak, go and do your job. You are no surgeon, and if you think I'm going to let you touch me, then you must have been brained in the battle.' Carel forced a smile that Isak returned. He touched Carel lightly on his good hand and rose.

'Well, Cardinal, it appears I do have time after all. Please, rise.' He gestured over at the figure of Karlat Certinse being stripped of his armour. 'And now you can at last write the final chapter of your book.'

'Hah,' the cardinal replied humourlessly. 'It's been a long time coming, for certain, but I don't intend to stop until I'm sure I've got them all. Life will be happier when I see his mother off to face the judgment of the Gods. I'll be praying the creatures of the Dark Place find something sufficiently inventive for the lot of 'em.'

To Isak's surprise there was little satisfaction in the cardinal's voice, just a grim determination. He guessed the long years pursuing Malich's followers had been his job rather than his calling. Perhaps the cardinal was just tired of dark secrets and death. Isak was already learning that too much of either could sour any man's soul.

'Would you do me the service of seeing to it? Acting with my au¬thority to bring them all to trial?'