The Twilight herald

The Plain of Pillars was named after the thousands of twenty-foot-high white sandstone columns erected hundreds of years before, fat columns the width of a man's outstretched arms, supporting the decorated stone lintels that divided the pillars into rows. Now the sharpened edges and deeply carved corners were proving an unex¬pected hazard for the plunging Reavers riding their bladed shields, though none appeared to care much. Styrax watched as one soldier, crouched low on his shield with an axe in each hand, almost gibbered with bloodthirsty delight until he clipped a pillar and was sent crash¬ing to the ground. His shield rebounded in an explosion of sparks and buried itself into a Cheme soldier's chest, but even before his comrade was dead, the Reaver had bounded to his feet and decapitated his nearest foe.

Another of the elite white-eyes plunged down through the knot of soldiers that had been intent on taking out Styrax. His bladed shield severed two heads as it fell to earth. Its owner dismounted expertly, bringing the shield up in defence as he struck out at the nearest enemy, shattering a leg with the mace he carried. As more Reavers landed, propelled over the ranks by a cadre of mages, Styrax stepped back and watched the slaughter. His presence on the battlefield was no longer necessary – the magic-crazed monsters would not notice his lack of participation. They were there to massacre the remaining traitors, to finish the bloody work once sensible men had lost the stomach for it.

Styrax remembered his own days as a member of that wild regi¬ment as though it had been just an opium dream. To be a Reaver was to be an animal, to revel in death and destruction, but he'd given it up when the searing flame of ambition at last overcame his baser instincts: watching the bloated figure of the man he would one day usurp in battle had broken the spell. The Lords of the Menin held greatness in their fists, yet Styrax's predecessor had been nothing more than a beast, a skilful berserker more suited to the Reavers. He had been simple-minded, blind to the value of anything beyond his baser lusts.

An echoing howl behind him intruded on Styrax's memories. He turned to see a burning figure staggering around blindly, about thirty yards away. Soldiers leapt to avoid the flames covering the man's entire body. Styrax's eyes narrowed. From the size of the figure he knew it had to be Kohrad. His son's strange armour was obviously growing in influence. Now it looked as if Kohrad had finally lost his control over it.

Styrax watched as Kohrad, impeded by one of the stone pillars, reached up to touch it. His fingers settled flat against the chill stone. Styrax heard his son snarl and saw the flames intensify, as if swelling in the fat streams of magic that flowed past him. The pillar blackened in a widening stain around Kohrad's hand and there was a loud crack¬ing sound as the pillar started to give under the enormous pressure. Styrax began to run towards his son, his white hand reaching for the Crystal Skull at his chest. He felt the surge of magic flooding through the pillars towards them: the time had come. He had to act now, or run the risk that his son would never recover his senses, for the magic Kohrad was randomly drawing would simply burn away his mind.

This was the opportunity they had been waiting for. Styrax broke into a run. The Skull came away from his armour easily and he held it at his waist as he pla

His son looked up, his sword twitching, as Styrax flung the Skull named Destruction up in the air. His sword immediately forgotten, Kohrad watched the shining artefact arc up towards him, blazing in the firelight. As it neared, the light grew more intense, feeding from Kohrad's flames and drawing in power. Kohrad reached out with sup¬plicant arms to catch the Skull he had once plucked from the Duke of Raland's plump hands, and as it fell into his embrace, he hugged it tight, pulling it to his chest so it could melt into the steel and become part of the torrent rushing through him.

He was still holding it fast when Styrax reached him. Kohrad didn't even look up as his father struck him with the pommel of his sword. The blow co

Styrax sheathed his sword. A company of Cheme troops had dropped back from the fighting and encircled their lord, leaving the rest to deal with the few remaining pockets of resistance.

'Major,' he called to the leader of his bodyguard, 'fetch General Gaur and a litter for my son.'

The major motioned and one of his men sprinted off towards the Bloodsworn knights. Two more soldiers started gathering spears and stripping dead bodies to gather material to make a stretcher. The others fa

Styrax pulled off his helm and knelt at Kohrad's side, placing a hand on the Skull that was now fused with the armour. It had already adopted the steel's blood-red colour. Kohrad was still alive. Styrax sighed in relief: he had only educated guesses where the Crystal Skulls were concerned, but this time at least, he appeared to have been right. He had needed his son to be at the point of burn-out, for only then could a combination of magic and brute force put him into this deep unconsciousness. And that was necessary for the team of surgeons and mages who were ready and waiting to remove the corrupting armour from his son's body. The Skulls were all designed to counteract the power of the Gods, and they provided a cushion of sorts against mortal blows – the Skulls didn't make men invulnerable, they just allowed a last roll of the dice against Death, the Chief of the Gods.

As Styrax crouched there, the shallow dent in Kohrad's helm twitched and distended before creeping back into shape. He watched it carefully. Kohrad had returned from a hunting trip with the armour, and Styrax had been unable to discover anything about it since then. Watching it repair the dent so quickly told Styrax it was ancient, Elven-made, but he could recall no text mentioning anything like this armour. He gave a grunt of curiosity as he gently eased the helm off Kohrad's head. His son's eyes were closed, and black hair dank with sweat stuck to his forehead. His lip was cut and a reddening graze ran over his cheek to a minor cut. There was no trace of a bruise on his temple yet, which was good – there was always the chance of bursting a vessel with a blow that hard, and few surgeons could do anything about blood leaking into the skull.

A clatter of hooves a

'He lives?' he growled, almost too scared to hear the reply.

'Yes.'

The two shared a moment of relief. Gaur's face bore a rare, brief smile.

'I think I hit him harder than I needed, but he's safe, I think. You have the team ready?'

'Close enough. The mages are happy with the laboratory we found in the Chetarate Stonedun and your surgeon is at the palace.'

'Good. Send a messenger. He should meet us at the stonedun.'

Gaur nodded, but before he could reply a voice hailed Styrax. They turned to see a party of horsemen trotting over, the white-eye mage Larim at the fore. Clearly none of them had taken part in the battle, for their robes were pristine, the discordant colours of Larat almost glowing. The major swore and snapped out an order. Soldiers immedi¬ately spread out to flank Larat's newest Chosen.

'Hold, he's no part of this,' Gaur bellowed, for his men were ready to kill anyone in Larat's colours.