The Twilight herald

The rangers sped off to consult with their comrades.

'Well, General Gort-' Isak started, then stopped suddenly as his brain managed to catch up and take in the magnificent sight of the six temples that gave the area its name. The nearest was Vasle's, all smooth lines and curves, with five interwoven raised stone cha

Beyond Vasle's temple were even more impressive structures, vast buildings designed to house many hundreds of worshippers. Looking around at the other temples he could see clearly – the forest of pillars around Nartis' high altar covered by a jagged series of sloping roofs, and the enormous domed Temple of Death – Isak realised that none of them had been damaged at all. He'd seen quite a few fresh scars on the surrounding shrines and minor temples that formed the outer ring, but the painted frescos and walls of the five temples ringing the Temple of Death all looked pristine.

Oh Gods, he thought wryly, unable to stop himself from smiling. The Devoted are here to protect the temples; any fool could have predicted that, and perhaps Azaer did. The temples haven't been touched, but now we're here, who knows?

'He's got a sense of humour at least,' Isak muttered, prompting a curious look from the general, which he waved away. 'No, it's not important right now. Staying alive is all I care about at the moment.'

Gort nodded quickly and something resembling relief crossed the man's face. Isak only vaguely remembered how they had parted the first time they had met, at the old temple of standing stones in Llehden. He'd been exhausted by his struggle with Aryn Bwr and driven to distraction by the bright moonlight of Silvernight, in no condition to hold a conversation, let alone consider the role of the Devoted in what had happened. He had been barely able to stay on his feet, and had to be escorted from the shelter of the trees by Count Vesna. There had been a sudden rush of movement and the sudden wash of moonlight illuminating his silver armour had brought him to his senses barely in time to prevent the milling Devoted soldiers being massacred by the gentry. There'd been no time for farewells, only a hurried escape for both parties and a distant look of what Isak suspected was satisfaction from Ehla, the witch of Llehden, as they clattered past her mouldering home.

Isak shook the images from his mind for now and added, 'So let's not waste time. Most of them will be coming from the east, following us. I'll take charge there, and you keep those lancers watching the rest of the perimeter so we're not taken unawares.'

To his surprise, no one objected to Isak commandeering what was roughly half of their troops, but there wasn't time to wonder whether Gort's past assertion of allegiance held true for them all, or if they just recognised that here and now, Isak was the best man to lead the defence.

Isak remounted and headed back towards the soldiers on the perimeter. A slow, distant murmur from the dark streets beyond their positions swelled into the growl of a thousand twisted, enraged creatures, no longer human.

Poor bastards; driven mad and driven to their deaths, Isak thought, picking up his pace a little. But for what? Just so Azaer can demonstrate his power?

When he reached the tight knots of soldiers he saw relief on the faces of Devoted and Farlan alike. By now they would have all heard stories about him, some true, others not, no doubt. Isak could smell their fear rolling off them in great stinking waves, as obvious as the sweat and leather stench of soldiers campaigning in summer heat. But they saw salvation in his u

Count Vesna, seasoned campaigner that he was, felt the change too and raised his voice to exploit it. 'Now listen, you bastards!' Vesna roared. 'What's coming isn't going to be pretty. It'll scare you shitless when you see them, but you're not going to move an inch, do you hear me?'

Isak could see that a good proportion of the Devoted understood Farlan from those who nodded agreement. More joined in as whisper¬ing voices translated Vesna's words, many looking at Isak, as if for reassurance. He'd known Lord Bahl for long enough to know his place in this performance. Sitting tall and unknowable atop his enormous warhorse, presenting the impassive front of a divinely blessed warrior, Isak slowly and deliberately hefted Eolis and flicked the glittering sword through a few practise sweeps while his friend spoke. Rogue fingers of lightning danced over His unearthly silver armour.

'Remember,' Vesna continued, dragging their attention back to him, 'all the enemy has is weight of numbers – you've all been in battle before; you know how bloody useless a crowd of untrained troops is. Few of them have weapons, and there's no one leading them, so they'll come straight at us and break themselves on the shield wall.'

He levelled his sword at the main line of defenders, where three ranks were already formed up and set at an angle to deflect the onrush of the enemy into a bottleneck studded with spears. 'Keep the line and trust the men beside you and behind you. The only thing that'll keep us alive tonight is discipline.'

The count forced a small laugh and gestured towards Isak. 'And if you don't believe in discipline, believe in the fact that Isak Stormcaller is standing here with you, and there's no daemon of the Dark Place that would dare cross him!'

There was no time for anything more. With a great roar, the mob broke from the darkness, spilling left and right around black empty buildings into the faint light cast by the torches of the barricades, a thousand screaming figures rushing towards them. Isak felt the soldiers near him waver, then, grimly determined, face forward. He filled himself with raw energy from the Skulls, then jumped down from Toramin to stand with the infantry, his teardrop shield snug on his arm and sparks crackling furiously over his silver-clad body. It re¬assured him as much as those around him.

The rush of power flowing through his body drove away the city's oppressive atmosphere. He stepped forward with a feeling of elation, his sword raised and ready, eager to disperse the ragged masses.

Archers went into action, picking off the quickest. Sir Kelet, taking his job as one of Isak's personal guard deeply seriously, claimed his first three kills before anyone else had fired their first shaft. But the mad-dened hordes appeared oblivious to the flailing bodies and crushed them underfoot.

There were not enough archers among Isak's troops to have any real effect, but the ranks were heartened to see the enemy take the first losses. The Devoted soldiers cheered and began to shout and bel¬low, working themselves up into a killing frenzy. Isak smiled inside his blank helm. That was what they would need, for this would be grim butchery soon enough. The screaming hordes were close now, barely thirty yards way, arms waving wildly, most clad in rags that could no longer be called clothes, charging on regardless of those who tripped and fell, to be stomped to death under their own comrades' feet.

The skirmishers were next to join the fray, sending a sky-full of javelins from the ranks. The onrushing crowd was too tightly bunched for any of them to miss.

The front ranks tensed and drew themselves up, bracing themselves for the impact. Buoyed by the wild, surging magic quivering inside his bones, Isak moved to the head of the bottleneck. Turn weakness to strength, he chanted to himself, the mantra of every successful general. His weakness was that he was a white-eye, vicious, and capable of brutality that would shock most normal men. Here it became a strength, a boost to the troops' morale. The enemy were unarmed and pitiful, but the beast inside him didn't care, it wanted only to kill. The chains of reason were gone.