'How far to the palace?' he asked.
'Five hundred yards, my Lord,' Jeil said softly. 'I counted ten guards on the nearest stretch of wall; the rest moved off when they saw the Ghosts to the south. There are no foot patrols beyond the wall.'
'Good.' He beckoned and a handful of figures started to converge upon him. 'I'm taking Leshi, Tiniq, Shinir and Vesna; that's all. Jachen, watch our backs, and get ready to wade in if we get into trouble.'
'Only five of you?'
'It has to be quiet. I don't know how many Fysthrall are still in the palace, but probably more than we can handle. Vesna, are you ready?'
The count gave a curt nod. He looked strange in full armour, especially when on foot and standing next the more lightly armoured rangers. He had the face-plate of his helm up, the lion mask staring up into the sky. His face was tight, fixed in an expression of concentra-i ion, as though he could will his doubts away.
'Let's seek our revenge,' Isak said softly.
They kept to the shadows as best they could, but they were still pain-fully obvious on Scree's dead streets. The silence was disturbing. A city without people was a body without a beating heart. The stench of corruption filled the air. Soon the conflagration in the south would burn everything away, leaving only ash in its wake.
When the wall was almost upon them, Isak pulled off his silver helm and edged his head around the corner of the building, his blue hood blending into the shadows.
What if they did see it? Isak wondered privately. In this place the Gods have abandoned, would they be glad to see the face of Nartis?
There were half a dozen torches burning on the wall, just enough to illuminate the oil-coloured scale pattern of Fysthrall helms, and the white scarves around the soldiers' necks. Every one was shifting uncomfortably or pacing the wall. The ground before the wall was a stretch of formal gardens, with lines of low bushes that might act as shallow trenches for the attack party. Dotted around the gardens were several dozen crumpled shapes. After a few moments Isak could see there were arrows sticking up from some of the bodies.
'Now we need a diversion,' he whispered, 'something to get us close enough to kill them all quickly.'
'And your plan?' Vesna asked.
Isak could hear a strain of hope in the man's voice. 'Worried that I might be making it up as I go along, my devoted bondsman?'
'I'm not your bondsman any more,' the count reminded him, 'but I remain a loyal servant of the tribe, so obviously I'm eager to find out what you want me to do.'
'Excellent.' Isak smiled. 'Now I need to find some bats.'
'Bats?' Vesna and Jachen spluttered together.
'Bats. Night's heralds, Death's winged attendants. Look at the men on the wall; they're all shuffling about, or pacing, or twitching: no one's standing still. That tells me they're nervous. I think we should borrow the majesty of the Gods as we're going to punish a heretic; there's symbolism and everything there.'
Isak grinned at the count, who shook his head wearily. 'You're an example to us all, my Lord,' Vesna said darkly.
Isak reached over and patted the man on the slight peak of his helm. 'That's what I thought. Now shut up and let me concentrate.'
He pulled off one of his gauntlets and closed his eyes as he ran his fingertips over the Crystal Skull fused to his cuirass. It was unusu¬ally warm to the touch, as ever, but now the Skull felt as slippery and elusive as a wet icicle. His lingers slid almost without resistance over its surface as he reached out with his senses to the Land beyond.
The air was thick and heavy in his throat; he could almost taste the putrefying wounds of the dying city. Scree was expiring, almost on its last breath. He felt the empty streets all around him, the stony dust of its broken bones and the hot stink of its bloating flesh.
In his mind Isak kicked away from the ground and surged up into the cooling night sky, letting the oppressive street-level air drop away like a shed skin. He sensed the reviving kiss of the wind high above and felt a gasp of pleasure escape his body as the gusts lovingly wrapped him in their chill arms. The cold bright moons prickled his skin and drove the remaining vestiges of Scree's choking oppression from his body, purging the poison from his veins.
Isak sighed. He hadn't realised how much he'd missed using magic, feeling the energies thrumming through his bones, but he'd had no choice – with the vast power available through his two Skulls, one small lapse of concentration would have announced his presence to the rest of the city. He couldn't risk it before, but now… now it was like returning to the embrace of a lover.
The witch said to accept what was inside me, he thought with a smile, so why should that not include magic? It's been with me my whole life, shaped me from womb to throne. Either I embrace it and keep control over it, or 1 risk letting it control me.
He cast his mind back to the battlefield outside Lomin, that winter landscape feeling an age away during this brutal summer heat, and he recalled that scary moment when he literally lost himself in the rampant tides of magic flowing through his body. I refuse to let that happen again, he told himself sternly.
Soothed by the bright night sky, with only the moons for company, he found a moment of contentment – and then, at last, Isak could feel the distant presence of Nartis once more, beyond the western horizon, watching between one moment and the next as the Land continued unaware of the scrutiny. It was nothing like the raging torrent Isak had felt upon Bahl's death – when the looming storm had rushed in to crash over his fragile body and raise him up to where the Gods stood – but something altogether more gentle and comforting. Isak's connection to his God was a delicate thing, too weak to be noticed, until times such as this.
If the God of Storms took note of such a small thing, he did nothing about it. Isak sensed a vigil of sorts, one centred on the black pit of Scree beneath him. Below he fell his body almosl swallowed in the darkness. The weight of the city beneath him was a black stain on the Land; a hole through which the normal order was draining away.
He reached his arms out wide, towards the distant clouds that had been kept at bay for too long. Isak gasped at the vastness of it all, for a moment terribly afraid of the thin shadow of his own soul, spread out over so many miles as the clouds started massing, closing a jealous embrace on the city.
And then here they were: flickering wings and sharp clicks in the darkness, shapes that darted and dodged after insects, flying in long, graceful spirals, drawn ever closer to his light.
He hadn't known what would happen once he was here, but he trusted the witch of Llehden. He remembered when first they met, when the gentry of Llehden had welcomed him as a brother – these creatures that cared nothing for the squabbles of man had recognised in Isak something he didn't quite understand himself. He was no prophesied Saviour – Isak needed no further proof of that, whatever any fool prophecy foretold – but the wilds had always been where he was welcome, and the mark of the Gods had deepened that connec¬tion; now he felt bound, and now he had to learn to understand.
The bats eagerly clustered around him, their sharp hunter minds curious at what they could sense in the air, though they couldn't trace an outline of him against the clouds. They followed him down, spiral' ling towards Scree and the street where Isak's body still crouched, before jinking away at the last moment towards the walls of the Red Palace. He opened his eyes just in time to see the swirling cloud of shadows descend upon the terrified soldiers, a darting funnel whipping around them as they ducked down fearfully.
Isak took a few steps forward, out into the moonlight where his armour shone brightly, and slid his helm over his head. No warning voices came from the wall; the Fysthrall guards were too intent on hiding from the column of bats that was spinning tighter and tighter. Isak felt magic billow through the night air, blossoming on the wall like flames bursting into being. He slid the shield from his back and onto his arm, anticipating an attack, before realising it was coming from the bats themselves.