Isak shook his head. 'Not really. We are born to fight, but we're also born to survive, no matter what. That means we'll fight with every ounce of strength, but a glorious death holds no interest.' His voice became more urgent. 'You know that, don't you? Nothing of this has been by accident; it is all by design. My dreams have imbued this fear of Styrax into every fibre of my body.
'Meeting him face to face I'll feel like the frightened little boy I have always been in my dreams. Even at my best, I've been one of the Chosen for only a year. Lord Styrax has ruled the Menin for several hundred. He's beaten Koezh Vukotic in a fair fight, and he killed the last Lord of the Menin with a plain sword! In a straight fight against Lord Styrax, I will die, and that I know with a certainty I cannot even explain. And I don't need someone as skilled as you to tell me what happens when you are certain of failure even before the first blow is struck.'
Mihn didn't speak. He was stunned by Isak's honesty – this raw openness wasn't part of Isak's personality, or the military world he lived in. Somewhere in the distance he heard a cough and realised the cardinals were nearing their position, but he couldn't yet tear his eyes away from the young warrior before him.
Isak forced a smile on his face and clapped a hand on Mihn's shoulder. He sagged under the weight as Isak pulled him closer to whisper, 'I think I've guessed what your contingency plan is – let us hope it never comes to that. I'm not sure what frightens me more.'
Mihn nodded dumbly. For a moment he saw complete under-standing in his lord's eyes, and an acceptance that was chilling to behold.
Then the shroud of politics descended, and by the time Isak turned to greet High Cardinal Certinse, the welcoming smile on his face looked almost natural.
Certinse himself looked harried and drawn, not showing the same pleasure as his colleagues at the prospect of riding at the head of a crusade.
'Your Eminence,' Isak called, 'I have excellent news.' He raised the parchment. 'This is Special Order Seven.'
The day passed swiftly, and Isak watched the chaos he had sparked throughout the city with a vague, sour smile. Mihn kept to his lord's shadow and watched him carefully. By the end of the day he still wasn't sure if that displayed amusement was a politician's ruse or – more worryingly, Mihn thought – what Isak thought he should be feeling, and so displayed as a mask, hiding the fear and emptiness within.
Sunset found the pair of them back at Tirah Palace, perched on Isak's high ledge in the chill evening air and watching the activity on the training ground below. Isak had sent two legions of City spearmen with Suzerain Torl, and promised more to follow. He'd also given Torl seven written orders, with instructions to hand them out to every suzerain he came into contact with. The results would be seven of the nearest suzerains joining him within days, accompanied by whatever troops they could muster at short notice; Lesarl estimated that would add some three thousand men to Torl's division of Dark Monks. There were six thousand mercenaries already signed up under a variety of cult flags.
Another division of Dark Monks waited in Saroc's suzerainty, which would take the initial total to ten thousand fighting men. Depending on how long he waited before following them, Isak would bring anything from five to twenty thousand men – and that could treble once word of his Special Order spread. With a few weeks' notice the second-string troops would be mobilised, and that was another fifty thousand men, half of them cavalry and already trained, before they had even to begin recruiting civilians. There was a very good reason why the Farlan was the most powerful nation in the Land and, as Mihn realised during the day, the tribe's military men were keen to remind the rest of the Land of that fact.
'With a full mobilisation, you could beat the Menin,' Mihn commented once he'd finished the prayer to the setting sun.
Isak made a noncommittal sound. 'His victories have been swift and easy so far because his enemies underestimated him; I don't intend to do that.'
'You're going to offer Styrax a chance for peace?'
'A full mobilisation would mean he's massively outnumbered, it's true, but reports from Tor Salan say he's turned the Ten Thousand to his service. If he has time to raise troops in Tor Salan and all the Chetse cities, our advantage is reduced. Narkang will stand with us, but they're not ready for full-scale war. If we have to fight, best we are better prepared and fighting on ground of our choosing-'
'Are we ready? If you send too many of the standing legions south, who will protect our other borders? You do remember the Elven invasion last winter? If you take the bulk of Lomin's troops to the Circle City, the Elven scryers will discover it soon enough. Will Duke Lomin even permit his troops to leave?'
'I've spoken to Lomin already, through those mages I met with earlier. He will provide troops; I've promised him support of another kind.'
Mihn hesitated. Isak's shoulders had dropped slightly as he spoke, as though there was yet another burden weighting them down. 'What sort of support?' he asked in an apprehensive whisper.
'Something only I can offer.' Isak leaned backwards and rolled his massive frame off the ledge and onto the small walkway that encircled the palace's main wing. 'It's something I must do now, even though it may backfire.' He sounded a little unsure of what he was about to do, which was unlike him.
Mihn was worried. 'Isak, shouldn't you rest first?'
'No, twilight's the best time – if you want to stay, keep quiet and don't interrupt.'
Mihn agreed and Isak opened his fleece-lined white cloak and held up one of his Crystal Skulls. Eolis was belted to his waist, and the other Skull was in its usual position, fused to the sword's hilt. Isak was wearing a formal red tunic braided with gold thread underneath the cloak, looking like he'd just stepped out from a banquet.
'Don't be coy, bitch,' Isak muttered, staring into the smooth, dead face of the Skull.
Mihn felt his hand tighten on his staff as the hairs prickled down his neck. Suddenly he couldn't feel the cold night air; a greasy sensation crawled over his exposed flesh instead, as light as a butterfly's touch. He twitched involuntarily and it receded a shade, as an unnatural wind began to whip up from the roof.
'Don't make me draw you out,' Isak snarled. 'You won't enjoy that at all.'
Mihn froze. Oh, Gods, please tell me you're not-
The thought died unfinished as a greenish flicker raced around the rooftop like a lightning bolt. The wind tugged at the corners of Isak's cloak and traced fleeting images of green in the air around the Farlan lord.
A stench of putrefaction and decay came from nowhere, causing Mihn to reel. He covered his mouth, trying not to retch, and flinched as he felt a flash of movement like a rap of knuckles on the inside of his ribs. When he looked up she was there, as beautiful as a shard of blue ice and just as cold, the terrible face of Death's most savage Aspect: the Wither Queen.
Mihn's stomach gave a lurch, out of terror as much as the rancid smell. She took a step towards him, all the tenderness of a conscienceless murderer in her eyes, reaching out to him with fingernails like jagged icicles-
'I didn't summon you here for that,' Isak snarled behind her, making the Wither Queen snap her head around.
Mihn gasped as his heart began to beat once again.
'Why do you call me?' the Wither Queen intoned in a rasping voice. Her limbs were so thin that her bones were plainly visible. In a ragged dress of grey-blue she looked like a corpse come to life.
Her matted black hair was seamed with grey, and on her head she wore a tarnished filigree crown set with unfinished gems. Long scabs marked her deathly-white skin; everything about her spoke of ruin and decay.