The air was filled with people shrieking, screaming, crying, wailing, and there, somewhere on the edge of hearing, Isak thought he heard an echoing laughter. For a moment he thought it had come from inside the temple, as though Death himself was revelling in the most unpleasant sides of himself, but everyone knew Death was impassive. Pleasure didn't come into this, it was just the act itself.

Isak chided himself at being distracted and returned his attention to the terrible slaughter taking place. Within minutes the Reapers had killed more than his men had managed to take down all evening, but in this Gods-inflicted chaos is was even less of a battle than it had originally been. This wasn't a desperate fight for survival, it wasn't the grim repetition of deflect, strike, kill, each soldier trying to control the growing fear inside him as they faced an unstoppable horde. This was different, this was murder, out-and-out butchery, and Isak couldn't quite believe it of Gods. He could see his own revulsion mirrored in the faces of the men around him.

And in an instant, the folk of Scree returned to their senses and a great wave of pleas and prayers emanated from the mob.

An icy hand gripped Isak's heart. The minstrel's magic had been undone, and the savage desires of Gods still gorged upon the minstrel's victims, thanks to the power he gave them.

The old men of the wagon-train, where Isak had grown up, always said the Reapers taught a man what he was truly afraid of. Take any¬one into a Temple of Death and look at the painted images: everyone, man, woman and child, would be able to pick out that one they feared more than the others. Isak had always believed the Burning Man was his; the idea of a man aflame made his skin crawl, but as he looked into the pitiless face of the Wither Queen, even his powerful limbs trembled. The other Reapers destroyed indiscriminately, but she seemed to take more than just life. As she caressed each terrified face with her long jagged fingernails, she looked into their eyes, and it was as if her dead-grey eyes tore the souls from each mortal body, as her loathsome diseases ravaged their flesh in a heartbeat. She bestowed upon her chosen pain of years in an instant, condensed and purified into the purest agony, and it was that pain that killed her victims as much as the diseases themselves.

Isak's hand shook as the Wither Queen cast her gaze on a crowd of petrified, whimpering civilians. He wanted to howl with fear and guilt. He staggered a few steps back and turned to look at the temple. It was still and silent, the only light within coming from the two torches they had set by the arched entrance that now cast deep shadows over the interior. The high altar at the centre of the building was a solid block of darkness, untouched by the torchlight.

But I never meant this, he though through a daze as the surging energies from the Skulls howled in his ears and begged to be used. How has this happened? These men have given their lives to defend what, a grand shrine to these daemons! They will have hern told it was their duty

to defend the glory of their Gods, and now they see the monsters their Gods really are- Or was this truly my fault? Did I do something to make them this way? Did they take something from me when they took the strength to incarnate?

'Stop them,' said a voice in his head. The scar blazed hot on his chest as he felt Xeliath's presence on his shoulder. 'They are here at your invitation, they are yours to command.'

'Xeliath?' Isak said aloud, before realising he had no need. 'Where are you? Can you see them?'

'I see them,' she said, her voice all grim purpose in his head. Her resolve calmed Isak and helped clear his mind. 'They are feeding off your strength, the power in the Skulls and the fear of your men,' She gave a small gasp. 'Isak, there's so much energy flowing through you – they're feeding off you like leeches, and as it flowed over your scar, that was enough to drag me here too.'

'Can you help me?'

'1 am miles away; we're guests in a monastery outside your city of Perlir. This fight is yours alone; Gods do not dream, I cannot touch them.'

'How do I fight them?'

'Face them down and cut the flow of strength. I can sense some strange flavour in the air around you. Whatever it is, it is anathema to them, 1 think. Without your help they will run like whipped dogs.' A suddenly note of urgency entered her voice and jerked Isak back to action. In the distance the screams continued.

Isak grabbed Eolis and used the sword to hold himself upright as the strength left his legs. He was intoxicated by the taste of magic filling his head.

'My Lord,' cried Count Vesna, seeing Isak totter. He ran over and grabbed an arm.

Isak looked up drunkenly into his friend's face. Vesna had removed his helm and Isak could see the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Tears of what, fear? Exhaustion? Or maybe loss for the man he'd once been…

And yet still he runs to you, still he is there to hold you before you fall, this man who thinks he's failed you. He casts off his own fear before he lets you fall, so who is it who has failed his friend?

'Hold the line,' Isak whispered, clutching Vesna's shoulder for sup¬port, willing his strength to return. Vesna, there for him despite his own troubles, and so many others: they needed a strong lord, or they were all dead.

Get up, you bastard, Isak screamed in his own mind, get up and face them, or it won't just be these men here who die. What about the rest of your troops in the city? What about the rest of the Farlan? Do you think Azaer will stop here? No, he'll continue until Tirah is as much of a husk as Scree.

'Hold the line?' Vesna said, looking up to check the wedge of sur¬viving soldiers. Some had sunk to their knees, all were too tired to speak. Only then did the count see the men wavering – fear of what was happening ruling them rather than mere exhaustion – and he immediately started to bellow orders.

Isak looked around. The mobs had stopped attacking them now, and the exhausted troops looked ready to collapse. Only the sight of the Reapers, still wreaking havoc amongst the people of Scree, stopped them from all crumpling to the ground. Vesna's orders raised heads and steadied a few, and as the remaining sergeants took up the shout, Isak watched their resolve return. He knew it was crucial they stayed in line, for if they ran, the Reapers would slaughter them too. Their only chance was to remain apart from the fleeing mob, separate and in control.

'They're running,' Jachen said dully. His sword hung limp in his hand, tip trailing along the ground. It didn't look like he'd have the strength to swing it again this night; Isak was ready to pray that none of them would have to.

'Wouldn't you?'

'Shouldn't we?' Jachen asked. 'No Aspect of Death is noted for its pity, but these-'

'If you run, you'll die,' Isak said with certainty.

'Then what? We stand here and let them slaughter us?' Vesna was as tired as the rest, and hadn't the strength to protest with vehemence. He sounded resigned, as though he knew this was what Fate had in store for him.

'Not if I've got anything to say about it.'

'You can't fight the Reapers.'

'Why not?' Isak stood straight again, no longer needing the man's shoulder for support. 'There was a war once, remember? Aryn Bwr proved Gods could be killed, and he gave the Land the means to do so. They'll remember; they fought at the Last Battle.'

A collective gasp from the men behind them interrupted them and Isak wheeled around to see the Soldier, sword low and head dipped,

advancing towards them. His face was veiled by his lank grey hair, but Isak could see the Aspect was carefully scrutinising the mixed Farlan and Devoted soldiers.

The Aspect wore a patchwork of armour, mismatched steel plates and scraps of chain mail hanging off his emaciated frame. His sword arm – the left, which struck Isak as strange, since most left-handed soldiers were forced to use their right – was bare, apart from a steel band around the wrist. The Soldier's skin looked as pale as a corpse's, and as wasted as one of the Wither Queen's victims, hardly strong enough to wield the long leaf-bladed sword with which he had helped to massacre the mob.