'What have you done?' moaned the usually reticent Tiniq.
Isak tore his eyes away from the bats for a moment; General Lahk's twin looked like he was about to be sick, He felt a shudder echo through the air from the wall and looked back to see the bats had vanished, to be replaced by a tall figure holding aloft a tall silver standard topped by a stylised sculpted shape.
'What is that?' Vesna asked grimly, loosening his sword. 'Have you woken another elemental?' His tone wasn't accusatory, just deter¬mined.
'Piss and blood,' Tiniq replied, dazed, 'look at the standard.'
They all did so, then Vesna hissed with trepidation, 'Merciful Death, Isak, it's the Gatekeeper.'
'Gatekeeper?' Isak said. He thought he recognised the standard from somewhere – a circle open on one side with a fist pushed in – but the memory was old, indistinct. Suddenly his heart chilled. 'The Herald of Death?' he gasped.
'It must be,' Vesna said, though he sounded scarcely able to believe what he was saying. 'The Herald takes the dead through his hallway, "where only bats and Gods may linger", and on to Death's final judg¬ment. He holds the keys to the throne room of Death.'
'And he's here to help us,' Isak finished. 'Perhaps the Gods have not entirely abandoned this city.' He pointed to the soldiers on the wall. Those that hadn't fled were silent, staring in horror at the motionless figure, completely oblivious to what might be happening in the streets of the city.
'My Lord, you don't understand!' Vesna sounded aghast. 'The Herald of Death does not leave his halls, he does not appear before the living. He isn't a Bringer of the Slain, he's not one of the Reapers
he should not be here!'
'Well he is,' Isak snapped firmly, 'and whatever portent you intend to read into his presence, it helps our cause. This is a city of the dead and we hunt a necromancer, so I think the rules are changed. Now move yourselves!'
Not waiting for the other four, Isak broke into a run towards the wall. There was a deeply set postern gate to the right but he ignored that, instead heading directly for the nearest part of the wall. From the corner of his eye Isak could see the others making for the gate, Shinir first, ready to scramble up and over to unbar it from the inside, as planned. It was Isak's task to leap straight onto the wall and kill the guards before they could raise the alarm.
He let energy flood his body, infusing his limbs with a burst of new strength. The wall was ten feel of grey bricks, but he vaulted up onto the walkway effortlessly. The nearest guard turned at the sound of metal on stone and died before his eyes could focus on the massive white-eye. A second died in the next heartbeat, still staring at the black skin and crimson robes of the Herald of Death. Only the fourth managed to raise a weapon in his defence and Eolis sheared through the spear-shaft and into the heart with ease.
Isak caught a glimpse of the Herald as two more Fysthrall, shaken out of their trance, ran down the walkway towards him with spears lowered. The Aspect of Death was taller than he, and had perfectly black skin. There were no eyes nor mouth, only slight indentations in an androgynous face. The smooth curve of its skull was broken only by its ears – and at that, Isak's memory stirred: the Herald could not see the dead and had no words for them, though Death himself saw all in those halls, and His words were as tangible as the pale grey stone walls.
Isak dragged his mind back to the present in time to deflect the two Fysthrall soldiers, turning into one spear with his shield while felling the other with his sword. The rusty-skinned soldier didn't check his stride in time and Eolis flicked out to pierce his chest. The other tried to pull back, but Isak was faster. He drove his sword across the man's throat. Both fell silently.
He looked towards the postern; the two corpses above it told him Shinir was already at the gate. That moment of distraction almost cost him dearly as a blow to his shoulder spun him around and almost knocked him off his feet. Looking past the motionless Herald, Isak saw a soldier desperately trying to reload his crossbow, and another spearman on the wall, looking bewildered and terrified. Isak, realis¬ing he couldn't risk being hit by another bolt, flung Eolis overhand twenty yards. The sword buried itself into the crossbowman's chest, as easily as a knife sliding into butter.
Seeing Isak unarmed, the spearman found his courage and rushed forward wildly. Isak didn't bother drawing the dagger at his belt. Balling his hand, he drew a fist-full of warm night air and punched it forwards. The soldier was two yards away when the blow hit him and rocked him back on his heels. He stopped dead, confused by what had happened, and took a moment to look down and check for injuries. The Fysthrall was still bewildered when Isak smashed his shield into his head and dropped him for good.
A hush descended, cut only by a low siring of curses from Isak. The line of wall was broken by fat square lowers; Jeil had described them
on the way, and he had been sure there that there would be no one in them – a major design fault meant the arrow-slit windows had no real views of the approaching streets. As a result, each section of the wall was isolated. They had gained the wall furthest from the main part of the palace and, thus far, they hadn't been seen.
The Herald hadn't moved. It stood and stared straight at Isak, its lack of eyes apparently no hindrance to knowing exactly where he was. Something about its stance spoke of a readiness, of impending movement. Isak suddenly began to feel vulnerable without his sword, but Eolis lay behind the nightmarish Aspect of Death, catching the moonlight as it stood out from the soldier's impaled chest like a parody of the Herald's standard.
He fought the urge to step back. The minor deity had helped them in some small way, but he had this strange feeling that the Herald was on the point of attacking him. In that expressionless face Isak sensed rage, a boiling anger that was hardly contained.
'You see me,' whispered a voice in Isak's mind. 'You can smell your prey, but still I am beyond your grip.' He gave a slight start – then realised it was not the Herald, but Aryn Bwr, the spirit of the dead Elf king he held prisoner in his mind, on the threshold of Death's domain. Suddenly it all made sense.
Isak pulled his helm from his head, revealing the blue mask that echoed Nartis' face. As he did so, he felt the building tension break I ike a wave on the shore. Relief washed over him, but Isak was careful to bow deeply to the Aspect, ignoring the sharp flare of pain in his shoulder as the arrow-tip twisted in the shallow wound it had made.
'Thank you, my Lord,' he said formally. He had no idea if that was the correct way to address a minor God.
The Herald gave no indication of being either angered or flattered. The scarlet-robed figure inclined its own head and turned away. Isak caught a glimpse of an elongated ear on the side of its head before the night air blurred and the Herald seemed to collapse inward on itself, disintegrating into a fluttering mass of black shapes that exploded in all directions and then faded into the night.
'Lord Isak,' Vesna hissed, from the open doorway in the nearby lower housing the steps.
Isak blinked at the night, suddenly aware that he was staring into nothingness, exposed in the torchlight. 'Give me a hand here,' he said, dropping to one knee and fumbling at Siulents' hidden clasps.
His armour of flowing silver was remarkable to behold, mesmerising opponents and giving him a presence that no mere king could ever attain, but being unable to see joins and clasps until they were open presented problems sometimes.