In the distance there was sound. He tried to concentrate on the noise to block out the pain, but it was not enough. Sometimes he could hear faint screams, sometimes laughter. Often there was only the slither of scales and skin over stone, or a distant booming that he felt through the rock more than heard. Whatever the sound, it was always dull and indistinct, even when the claws clicked close enough to touch his body. Hot huffs of foetid breath came accompanied by guttural snorts. Their whispers produced images in his mind, horrors he had no name for, and the words themselves were unintelligible.
It was too dark to see, but on occasion flashes of vermilion-tinted light burst in his eyes. His prison was a forgotten fissure. His blood was a feast for his monstrous attendants who crawled up walls and along the roof; sometimes they fought desperate battles, tearing shreds from their enemies; greedily gulping down chunks of hard-won flesh before the battle was even over, or they got cast into the jagged pits and yawning chasms below.
His head sagged and he stared down into the emptiness beneath his feet, mindless of the cruelties inflicted upon him. His tongue was a lead weight that filled his mouth; he could no more gag than scream. For a moment he thought perhaps he had succeeded in howling, until the stench of putrefaction and heavy rasp of limbs told him there had been another victory on the walls around him. In the prison of his mind, his screams were deafening.
Isak wrenched himself awake with such force he fell from his camp-bed. He moaned and dry-retched at the memory of the dream, shudders rattling down his spine. After a few moments he forced his head up and saw the grey light of dawn creeping through the entrance of his tent. He'd managed no more than two hours of sleep and his mouth felt like it was filled with sulphurous ash.
'No good reason it's today,' he said hoarsely, and reached for the wineskin hanging from the ridgepole. 'Could be nothing but some damn shadow messing with my mind, or the Reapers giving Aryn Bwr a reminder of what's waiting for him.'
The wine was sour and weak, but it took away the foul taste from his mouth. His tent was simple, barely long enough to fit the whole of his oversized body, and far from the luxury some dukes went to war in. Isak was beginning to regret his decision to set an example. The fact that Chalat had burned or redistributed the finery some clerics had brought with them was small consolation on a cold, grey morning.
The bowl of water beside his bed was far from clean, but it was good enough. Isak plunged his hands in and started scrubbing roughly at his face, desperate to get rid of the hot, greasy feel of his dream that lingered still.
Afterwards, feeling a little refreshed, he struggled into his armour. The cold in his bones began to ease once Siulents touched his skin, and he felt almost human again by the time he buckled Eolis around his waist and stepped out into the dawn light.
Two men were waiting for him under a sky of heavy black clouds: the implacable white-eye and the flamboyant hero. Count Vesna was resplendent in his legendary black-and-gold plate, while General Lahk wore the austere black-and-white livery of Lord Bahl over the lighter half-armour of the Ghosts. The sight of Lahk reminded Isak that one cleric had even gone so far as to demand command of the Ghosts be given over to the cult of Death, since they wore the livery of a dead man.
'Where the buggery is Torl?' Isak snapped.
'He presents his apologies,' General Lahk replied in his usualflat voice, sounding almost disinterested, 'Suzerain Torl says he cannot
leave Chalat's army; that he must finish what he started.'
'He does remember he started it because I ordered him to?'
'Isak, he's a proud man; a man of honour,' Vesna said.
The hero of the Farlan Army somehow contrived to look fresh and awake, despite the fact dawn had not fully broken yet. His golden earrings of rank gleamed in his left ear and his shining hair was neatly tied back; he looked ready to attend a parade in his honour. The scattering of grey hairs among the lack contrived only to add a certain sage dignity to his ever-handsome features. Isak glowered at him.
'He will not leave them now, not after he has force-marched them here.'
'He'll bloody die!' Isak protested as loudly as he dared; he did not want to attract the attention of the entire legion of Ghosts surrounding them.
'I'm sure he understands that,' Vesna hissed fiercely, 'but it is his choice. Torl is not a man who walks away. He's sent Tiniq back, and all those seconded to him from your personal guard, but that's as far as he's going.'
Isak scowled as a woman in the quartermaster's livery ran up to him with a steaming clay pot and a large hunk of bread. He accepted both with a grunt, and when the woman looked worried, fearing she'd offended him, he managed a small smile of thanks.
'What do the scryers say?' he asked through a mouthful of bread.
'The enemy have held their position. There were a few probes in the night, but nothing serious, just scouts trying to draw us after them.'
'And the reinforcements?'
'Theirs or ours?' Lahk asked.
Isak shook his head in irritation. 'Theirs, of course – ours are so far behind we might as well have not even bothered calling them up. I doubt they'll be here in time to bury the dead!'
'Fifteen legions, no more than two days away. We could sacrifice our light cavalry to at least slow them down, but only if we could get Chalat to hold off his assault long enough for us to outflank them.'
'So he didn't bother bringing his full army to conquer the Circle City?'
'You are right to be suspicious, my Lord, but where the remaining troops are I cannot say. The scryers cannot find them anywhere.'
'Let's count what blessings we do have,' Vesna said firmly. 'Chalat is determined to march straight into Styrax's men, making himself a damn big target for whatever Styrax intends. That saves our troops from the worse of their surprises, and gives us a chance to watch out for the rest of the Menin, whether they're behind the walls of Byora or elsewhere.'
Isak nodded. 'And also giving us the chance to not engage at all unless we really have to. The closer we can get to Byora the better. With luck the Ghosts can break through the gates and take the Ruby Tower. Either way, we don't want to give Azaer any space to intervene if we can help it.'
'I doubt the opportunity will arise, my Lord,' Lahk said. 'Everything I hear about Kastan Styrax makes me certain there will be a surprise waiting.'
'I know, but it's still not why we're here. There's a fair chance he'll take Chalat out after the initial charge – if he does, those mercenaries will fall back. That's our opportunity to treat with Styrax – we can tell the clerics it's a ruse; if they do object, they'll be too disorganised to do anything about it in time.'
Lahk bowed, his face expressionless. 'As you wish, my Lord.'
'How near ready are we?'
'Two legions mounted and formed up, plus the First Guardsmen to the east,' Vesna said, pointing to Isak's left, 'and the Fordan and Tehran divisions behind you.'
As he spoke, an aide ran up with a scout in tow. The soldier was dressed more like a forester: his poorly fitting tunic had been reinforced with steel strips and he carried a light helmet. A long dagger was tucked into in his belt; if he had a bow, clearly he'd left it with his horse.
'Report,' Lahk commanded as the pair saluted Isak.
'General,' the aide began breathlessly, 'Lord Chalat has given the order to advance.' Isak guessed the youth to be a couple of years younger than he was himself, probably a noble son assigned to Lahk's command staff since it was deemed a relatively safe post.