the Cheme Legion disappeared in a cloud of dust, dropping like stones into the hole beneath them.
We must — The thought didn’t get any further as he sensed something else blossom on the battlefield, magic as vast and weighty as the Narkang weapon, but still distant. Surprise turned into astonishment, then anxiety as a presence shimmered into being like a beacon igniting into a blaze . . .
Except the presence wasn’t ahead of him, it was behind.
He turned, even as he realised who it was, though he couldn’t see anything past the Bloodsworn behind him. But there was no mistaking that scent; he knew it only too well . . . and the knowledge sparked something akin to fear in his belly. The air behind his troops seemed to judder, and a haze of dust appeared.
The presence was not alone.
Not alone, no, he’d not come alone, Styrax thought, desperately trying to work out what this would mean, whether he needed to pull back from the fight, go and deal with the new threat first. The cries of injured men from the crater behind put paid to that thought; he couldn’t leave this weapon alone, or it would devastate his army.
The time has come, he realised. King Emin’s made my choice for me - I must destroy this weapon, and hold nothing back to do so. We live and die on this strike of the sword. Would I have it any other way?
Lord Styrax ignored the presence and turned back to the fight, barging his way forward to bring his formidable skills to bear. Even before he reached the defenders he could see their eyes widen in fear as they saw just how huge he was.
You will have to wait, Mortal-Aspect, he thought as his obsidian-black sword tore into the first Narkang soldier. The blade greedily absorbed the spilt blood. But never fear; I have strength enough to teach both King Emin and Karkarn a lesson they’ll never forget . . . if they even live that long.
The lance drifted down in a smooth, practised arc, timed to perfection, and the steel tip drove into the nearest enemy’s unprotected throat. His head snapped backwards under the force of the blow and blood sprayed into the air. Momentum carried Vesna’s hunter on into the dead man’s horse and its armoured shoulder smashed the smaller steed away. Vesna reached for his sword as the crash of similar impacts all around him sounded: the Farlan had arrived.
The cavalry were completely unprepared for the Farlan assault, and panic ensued as those who tried to flee got caught up with those trying to stand their ground. The scarlet-liveried Ruby Tower Guards had recognised their black-and-white-clad attackers well enough; they were reluctant allies of the Menin, and few wanted to face the charge of the Ghosts. They knew they weren’t strong enough to face the heavy cavalry of the Farlan, and they barely tried. As Vesna fought his way through, the Byorans struck back weakly, more interested in getting out of his way. Many never even raised their weapons as he chopped a bloody path through.
The air was filled with the stink of blood and shit and sweat, and all Vesna could hear was the clash of steel and the screams of the dead and dying, a symphony of pain that made his divine half soar. His heart hammered loud in his chest, suddenly alive, and beating with more power than ever before. He struck again and again, blindingly fast, already moving, ready for the next blow, while men fell like wheat before him.
A Byoran braver than most of them lunged at him with his spear, and Vesna was forced to twist in his saddle to deflect it. The press of men behind him was pushing his horse away, out of reach, but Vesna swept his sword low, then up, stretching his arm and slicing towards the man’s face — and felt the weapon jar and bite into flesh, but his hunter carried him on, and he didn’t see if he had killed the man.
Instead, he found himself face to face with the Byoran standard bearer, who went at him with a long sabre, which Vesna caught on his shield, raising sparks off the embossed lion’s head. Sweeping upwards with his own weapon he sheared through the standard’s pole, and brought the sword back down to chop through the Byoran’s wrist on the downwards swing. The man fell screaming, and the standard fluttered as it toppled after