'Theologically this is difficult ground, so priests with similar promise take an Aspect of their chosen God instead – a weaker choice, but more acceptable for a religious figure. Ducohs, my own guide, has been with me for more than sixty years.'

'It has a name?'

'But of course.' Isak's comment seemed to amuse the old man. 1 have been High Priest for more than twenty years now, and as my strength and ability have increased, so have Ducohs'. Now, make a circle with the powder.'

This time Isak did as he was told. His curiosity about this withered old man was mounting: he talked about an Aspect of Larat as he would an old friend. When he had finished, Isak replaced the stopper and handed the bottle back. The priest fumbled as he attempted to reattach it to one of the chains that hung from his waist, but the

determined set to his mouth made it clear enough that he wanted no

help.

'Right, now we are ready. Sit in front of me and concentrate on the picture. This will be disconcerting, so it is better to keep your eyes open and focused on something.'

Isak sat and stared intently at the painting while High Priest Wetlen wheezed and muttered unintelligibly. The painting, a classical image of Nartis hunting, was old and ugly. Isak scowled. Whoever the artist was, he was an idiot who had no idea how living creatures moved or stood. Nartis himself was grossly parodied: shown almost naked, with deep blue skin and an excessively muscular body. The figure looked brutal, like a daemon, not a God, with no grace or subtlety about it.

Isak kept his eyes on the painting as the High Priest reached out and touched his head, gently drawing magic from the air around them so Isak's ears began to buzz and ring at the sensation of energies rushing through him. It felt like cool, ghostly fingers dipping into his mind. Then he felt the powers pause and hold, and he himself relaxed and unclenched his fists.

He smothered the alarm he felt in the back of his mind and took a deep breath, waiting for the High Priest to continue. He trembled as the smooth but relentless fingers traced the shape of his soul, and closed his eyes.

Swordmaster Kerin watched Lord Bahl as they waited outside in silence. The white-eye had his eyes closed and his head rested heavily on one hand. It was an unnerving sight: a tired king on his throne. To the Swordmaster, Bahl had always been a man of boundless strength and energy, impervious to the burdens imposed by power.

Bahl's eyes jerked wide open and he was already upright as a blinding crash of light and noise burst through the antechamber door. Kerin

flinched away from the explosion, arms held protectively over his face as pieces of shattered door flew across the room.

In the silence that followed, they saw the broken corpse of High Priest Wetlen, and Isak, still sitting on the cushion, his face a rictus of terror as a golden nimbus glittered and surged above his shorn head.

CHAPTER 9

'Well, will it work?'

The engineer mopped his heavy brow with an oil-stained cloth and chanced a look at his lord. The huge white-eye was standing perfectly still, looking out through the cloud to the city walls beyond. Either Lord Styrax was moving swiftly, albeit with economical purpose, or he was as motionless as the many statues of Karkarn, God of War and patron of the Menin tribe, that adorned their home city; there was no middle ground, and it was disconcerting to behold. There was no wasted effort on personal quirks: it was as if the Gods had perfected their design for the white-eye, and Kastan Styrax was the fruit of their efforts. Since their first meeting two months back, the engineer had remained in utter awe, and even now, as he looked at Lord Styrax's emotionless face, he found it hard to imagine the man was a mere mortal, made of flesh and blood.

'I believe so, my Lord,' he said after taking a moment to smother the nervous hiccoughs that threatened to interrupt. 'The wood is sound and my men have done a good job; I could expect nothing better, given the circumstances. I would prefer to test-fire it first, but without that option, all I can say is that I believe it will serve as you asked. If you were using a cut stone I could estimate-' His voice broke off as Styrax raised his hand. Apart from his head, it was the only par of the white-eye's body not encased in forbidding black armour, but the hand, like the armour, was the result of his greatest victory. Bone-white from wrist to fingertip, it had twisting swirls of scar tissue covering the skin and deep bloody stains forever caught under the fingernails. Rumour said Kastan Styrax had allowed it to be burned to achieve this great triumph: cutting down Koezh Vukotic in battle. No lone warrior had managed such a feat since the vampire had risen from the grave for the first time; he considered the price minor.

'The sinew is still strong?' asked a rasping voice from behind them. The engineer turned as General Gaur advanced on them, his lord's helm clasped reverentially in his black-furred hands. Few would interrupt Lord Styrax's conversations, but despite his monstrous appearance and hybrid nature, General Gaur was the closest thing to a friend the white-eye had.

'We brought two sets just in case, and one survived completely intact,' confirmed the engineer. 'I've checked the catapult and it's still in firing order.'

'Excellent. You have done everything I need you for.' The engineer paled as his eyes were drawn to Lord Styrax's huge broadsword.

'Gaur, accompany our skilled friend to the horses and get them ready to move. And send Kohrad to me.'

The engineer sagged with relief as General Gaur began to walk away, pausing for a moment to allow him to pick up his tools and catch up. Clearly they weren't going to kill him now his task was over, as he had begun to fear. As the tension flooded away, he began to hiccough again, trying desperately to smother them with his hands, but the general prodded his shoulder with one taloned finger and beckoned him on.

Lord Styrax hadn't moved an inch, despite the odd noises, and the trails of unnatural cloud made him appear almost ethereal in the morning light. The engineer shivered at the sight and scuttled away, hiccoughing madly, as fast as he could. He was careful not to look back again.

Styrax tasted the air. The bittersweet flavour of magic hung thick around him. The fog that surrounded his small army made it difficult to see anything more of the city than an outline of stone against the morning sky. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Larim, one of Larat's Chosen, currently engaged in making them invisible from the city walls. The strain was only just beginning to show on the young white-eye's face. ‘Father, Larim seems to be a match for the test you set him. I think that old crow Lord Salen will have to be more careful of his position in future. There’s quite a gleam of ambition in Larim’s eye.’ ‘I think you’re right, Kohrad,’ Styrax replied, not taking his eyes off the wall. He raised his arm straight out for his son to duck underneath; steel clanked against steel. ‘Don’t underestimate the cunning of crows though. Lord Salen has been busy himself recently, I think the contest will be most entertaining to watch.' Styrax paused. 'Kohrad, my arm feels unseasonably warm.'

That's because it's on fire, Father.'

'Stop it then.'

'Yes, Father – I was just frightening away Gaur's fleas.'

'Don't. You shouldn't make fun of him when there are nobles around. General Gaur has no allies among them, only enemies, and he's as devoted to you as he is to me.'

'I hardly think that's possible.'

Kohrad looked around for his father's friend. The bulky general was on his way over, his massive jaw working away as it always did when he was thinking. His fangs moved up and down through the rough bristles of his face.