'Major,' he called to the leader of his bodyguard, 'fetch General Gaur and a litter for my son.'
The major motioned and one of his men sprinted off towards the Bloodsworn knights. Two more soldiers started gathering spears and stripping dead bodies to gather material to make a stretcher. The others fanned out and continued to keep watch.
Styrax pulled off his helm and knelt at Kohrad's side, placing a hand on the Skull that was now fused with the armour. It had already adopted the steel's blood-red colour. Kohrad was still alive. Styrax sighed in relief: he had only educated guesses where the Crystal Skulls were concerned, but this time at least, he appeared to have been right. He had needed his son to be at the point of burn-out, for only then could a combination of magic and brute force put him into this deep unconsciousness. And that was necessary for the team of surgeons and mages who were ready and waiting to remove the corrupting armour from his son's body. The Skulls were all designed to counteract the power of the Gods, and they provided a cushion of sorts against mortal blows – the Skulls didn't make men invulnerable, they just allowed a last roll of the dice against Death, the Chief of the Gods.
As Styrax crouched there, the shallow dent in Kohrad's helm twitched and distended before creeping back into shape. He watched it carefully. Kohrad had returned from a hunting trip with the armour, and Styrax had been unable to discover anything about it since then. Watching it repair the dent so quickly told Styrax it was ancient, Elven-made, but he could recall no text mentioning anything like this armour. He gave a grunt of curiosity as he gently eased the helm off Kohrad's head. His son's eyes were closed, and black hair dank with sweat stuck to his forehead. His lip was cut and a reddening graze ran over his cheek to a minor cut. There was no trace of a bruise on his temple yet, which was good – there was always the chance of bursting a vessel with a blow that hard, and few surgeons could do anything about blood leaking into the skull.
A clatter of hooves announced General Guar's arrival. The general jumped from his horse untidily, he had never been a natural horse¬man, not with the legs and hooves of a goat – but right now Gaur didn't care how awkward he looked, not with the young man he loved like a son lying like a corpse.
'He lives?' he growled, almost too scared to hear the reply.
'Yes.'
The two shared a moment of relief. Gaur's face bore a rare, brief smile.
'I think I hit him harder than I needed, but he's safe, I think. You have the team ready?'
'Close enough. The mages are happy with the laboratory we found in the Chetarate Stonedun and your surgeon is at the palace.'
'Good. Send a messenger. He should meet us at the stonedun.'
Gaur nodded, but before he could reply a voice hailed Styrax. They turned to see a party of horsemen trotting over, the white-eye mage Larim at the fore. Clearly none of them had taken part in the battle, for their robes were pristine, the discordant colours of Larat almost glowing. The major swore and snapped out an order. Soldiers immedi¬ately spread out to flank Larat's newest Chosen.
'Hold, he's no part of this,' Gaur bellowed, for his men were ready to kill anyone in Larat's colours.
The troops froze, obedient to Gaur's every word, and the remaining few followers of Larat screamed their last in the background while Larim trotted on, apparently unconcerned.
'Say what you like about Larat's Chosen,' Styrax muttered almost beneath his breath, 'none of them hold a grudge. They don't have the capacity to care, not even for colleagues of twenty years.'
With the mage were two guards whose uniforms echoed those Styrax had been slaughtering, looking completely terrified as they stared around at the butchered regiments. They were hauling along a pair of bruised figures, mages who had been beaten to a pulp, though Styrax recognised the pair, part of Salen's coterie, were not looking as dead as he'd ordered.
'Where are the others?' he called.
'Dead already,' said Larim in a jocular voice. Styrax frowned for a moment. The Chosen of Larat was looking far too cheerful around such slaughter, even for a callous bastard who cared only about his own skin. Then Styrax remembered Salen was dead just this hour past – Larim would still be intoxicated by the renewed blessing of the God of Magic. Considering his God's utter disregard of murder, and his amusement at Salen's death – Styrax would not forget that chuckle echoing through the streets of Thotel in a hurry – of course Larim would find the sight of his newly inherited army being slaughtered high entertainment.
'Do you see them honouring us?' Larim gestured around at the torches of the Chetse surrounding them. Atop the black bulk of the Lion Guard's barracks were more than a hundred such torches, and at least a handful could be seen in every other direction. 'A ring of fire, perhaps they are welcoming us by echoing our homeland?'
'Perhaps.' Styrax was in no mood to engage in foolish banter. Larim had disobeyed his orders by coming here, and Kohrad needed atten¬tion as soon as possible. Styrax reminded himself to be polite for the moment; he didn't need the distraction of another fight. 'My Lord, I assume you have a good reason to be here?'
'My lord,' repeated Larim, pleased with the sound of his new hon¬orific. The Hidden Tower was set in the remote north of the Ring of Fire, so Larim, even though Salen's Krann, had enjoyed neither lands nor actual rank before Salen's death. 'My reasons are good, yes. As you ordered, I was dealing with Salen's coterie. Then something curious happened that you need to take note of.'
Styrax gave an exasperated hiss. Behind Larim he could see the two Cheme soldiers returning with a rough drag-litter. Ignoring the exchange between the white-eyes, they gave perfunctory bows and hurried over to Kohrad. Styrax turned to Gaur and leaned close, so as to not be overheard. 'Go ahead with Kohrad – take the regiment as escort. If this turns out to be important and I don't catch you up, don't wait. I want to know how this armour is exerting its influence over him. If we don't break the link now, either he will die, or he will wake to the armour past any chance of control, and we will never get this chance again. I do not intend for either to happen.'
The general grunted in assent and together they lifted Kohrad onto the cradle while the soldiers brought over a horse to attach it to. Leather straps went around his chest and waist to hold Kohrad onto the cradle but they had to bend his knees to ensure his feet didn't drag.
His son looked suddenly frail, ashen in the weak light. Styrax re¬membered Kohrad as a child, an energetic sprawl of whirling limbs, storming through Crafanc's rooms with his lionhounds. His mother, Selar, was also a white-eye – they could breed only with their own kind – yet she had proved a remarkably attentive parent. It had broken Selar's heart when her cherished son effectively chose his father over her; after years of his mother's unconditional love, it was to Styrax that Kohrad had turned.
Through his childhood Kohrad had been in perpetual motion, rarely able to remain stationary. Even as an adult he would pace and gesture, brimming with childish energy and wicked humour. And now he lay there with slack lips and vacant eyes: to see Kohrad like this chilled Styrax's heart, more than any wound he'd received.
Reluctantly he lifted the drag-cradle and hooked it up to the wait¬ing horse's saddle. Gaur gave him a nod and led the horse away, clearly intending to walk beside Kohrad all the way. Styrax took one last look and left his friend to take charge, a rare flicker of fear in his heart as he returned his attention to Larim. Whatever concerns he had, he couldn't show the ambitions young white-eye a trace of weakness. Larim might begin to think he would succeed where Salen failed.
'The young lord is badly hurt?'
'He will recover,' Styrax growled in reply, glaring at Larim until the younger man shifted his gaze from Kohrad's prone form. 'You had something important so show me?'
'Ah, so I did.' Larim coughed and gestured to his two guards, who dragged the prisoners from their saddles. Each had his hands bound with white cord with some sort of enchantment woven into the thin rope. Styrax could just make out the glittering silver thread that held the magic. Larim took one by the arm and dragged him over to where Styrax was standing.