‘I curse you, and I strike your name from history,’ Isak howled in agony and grief, ‘stripped of arrogance and pride, empty of the self you once knew, gutted of all you are. I take your name and all you have won by the strength of your hand. I curse you for eternity, to find only darkness where once you knew your own face.’
He could not speak any longer as the chill touch of the curse entered his mind, questing through the brutalised corners of his head for a name and ripping it away forever. Isak felt the words fade like a whisper on the wind, a curl of smoke whose shape hung on the breeze and was then gone — vanished.
The man on the platform screamed, his hands clasped to his head, his fingers digging so deeply in that blood welled up. Skull and sword discarded, he fell to his knees as the claws tore into his brain. The Skulls fused to his cuirass dropped from the armour, then the first of the black whorled plates slipped off his body and clattered to the ground. The man was oblivious; convulsing, he collapsed to the floor.
Isak heard shouts from all around as the curse spread, reaching out through friend and enemy alike to steal a name from all of them before rippling further out and across the Land. He felt the power of the Gods, fed by the Skulls in their midst, waxing strong, even as the effort drained them.
The man on the platform writhed and shrieked as the claws reached the last recesses of his soul, shredding memories and excising even the smallest remnants of the man he had once been. He tried to fight, beating at his head and ripping his clothes, but to no avail. The curse bit deep, as he scratched bloody shreds of cloth from his body. Somehow he fought his way upright, muscles straining against the weight of the Land, but all the while he was howling at what was being taken from him.
And then it was over. The gale subsided, the magic of the Gods dissipated, and the man fell, exhausted, mewling, to his knees. Isak took a hesitant step forward, barely able to stay upright himself.
‘And I dub you the Ragged Man,’ he whispered, blood trickling from his nose and mouth as he spoke.
He reached Death and the cowled figure turned to face him. The air smelled of age and fatigue, of a temple drained of its majesty and power.
‘It is done,’ Death intoned. He made a dismissive gesture at the Ragged Man, and a pair of Ralebrat grasped the whimpering figure by each arm and dragged him into the ground, moving through the earth as easily as a bird ducking below the surface of a lake.
‘They will take him far from here.’
‘There is a cottage by a lake,’ Isak said hoarsely. ‘There is a place for him there.’
Death inclined His head. The God’s presence was less awe-inspiring now - the curse had required so much power that the Upper Circle were winking out of existence, back to their distant palace. Only Karkarn, Nartis and Death remained.
‘You know what you have done,’ Nartis called.
Isak felt a great tremor of pain run through his body as he nodded, and in the next moment Mihn was there, slipping underneath him and taking some of Isak’s great weight on his shoulders.
‘We have weakened you,’ the witch of Llehden stated, advancing just past Isak as he wilted under the strain.
‘We have made a choice,’ Legana added, resting heavily on her staff. The Gods-touched woman faced Death without flinching, her emerald eyes shining through the unnatural gloom. ‘A choice that was ours to make.’
‘You have weakened us,’ Death said slowly, looking from one to the other. ‘For what is to come, the Gods will not be able to intervene.’
‘Good,’ said Legana firmly. ‘It is our fate as much as yours. The choice should be ours this time.’
‘It is our time,’ Isak agreed wearily. ‘This was the only way, and now — Now the Land will be remade.’
‘By whom?’
The scarred white-eye tried to smile, but it hurt too much. He started to turn away, but caught sight of one half of Cetarn’s charred corpse, and his gaze lingered there.
It was the witch who answered, speaking for them all. ‘By those of us willing to sacrifice everything.’
The story is concluded in
THE DUSK WATCHMAN
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Akass, Lord Paden - Deceased Lord of the Menin and Chosen of