Shranree spun around and gestured desperately at Yllandris and the other sorceresses. Thurva immediately pointed a finger at Krazka. A flicker of lightning crackled at the tip of her outstretched digit only to sputter out harmlessly.
Krazka sighed dramatically. Then he strolled over, grabbed the cross-eyed sorceress by the hair and slit her throat. Blood welled up around the wicked sword but he kept cutting, not stopping until the blade had severed the neck completely and the head came away in his hand. He tossed the grisly trophy on the ground where it rolled a couple of times and came to a halt, surprised eyes staring off in opposite directions.
Yllandris stared dumbfounded. The crowd broke and townsfolk started to flee. Some of the hardier men went to their weapons. Krazka gestured to the fake Six, who drew their swords, and then he pointed to the horsemen who were even now approaching the gates.
‘I got me three hundred warriors from the Lake Reaching,’ the one-eyed killer shouted. ‘Any of you greybeards or cripples cause any trouble, I’ll cut your throats. Then I’ll find your wives and children and cut theirs, too.’
‘The Shaman will not stand for this!’ Shranree gasped, her voice quivering.
Krazka grinned. ‘The Shaman will be dealt with. There’s older and nastier things than him.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘I reckon one of ’em is due any moment.’
While Krazka had been speaking the drumming had been getting faster. Now it rose to a crescendo. Boom. Boom. Boom. There was a sudden ripple of wind and, like an unholy comet, the black-scaled horror plummeted down out of the clouds to land just outside of town. It unfolded like a monstrous black flower, rising up a good head and shoulders above the walls to gaze down with a trio of sinister eyes. The grievous wounds it had taken only a few short days ago had already healed.
Yllandris heard her sisters turn and run, but she was rooted to the spot, too terrified to do anything but stand and stare.
Krazka faced the towering demon. He appeared to be listening to something. He nodded, and then gestured at the fiend. ‘It calls itself the Herald,’ he said.
‘This… creature talks to you?’ asked Shranree, aghast.
‘It don’t speak. It forms words directly inside your skull,’ replied Krazka. ‘And it serves another, whose name it’s too afraid to even think. Aye, you heard that right. Anyways, the Herald leads those of its kind that’ve made it through. Most ain’t as bright as he is but that don’t matter, see, since killing is what it’s all about. The only way more of ’em can escape into our world is by sending souls in the opposite direction. So that’s what they do.’
‘And you… you are allied with this thing?’ There was a note of curiosity in Shranree’s voice now.
‘It made contact. Offered me a deal I couldn’t refuse. You don’t know how many men I had to murder to become chieftain of the largest Reaching in the High Fangs. I thought to myself, why stop there? The Lowlands, they’re a hundred times the size of this place. There’s a whole world to conquer, I figure.’
‘What will you do with us?’ Shranree asked quietly.
‘I saw your work at Frosthold. Got to say, I was impressed. Make me a new circle. One big enough for all the sorceresses in the Reachings. Those that refuse to swear fealty…’ Krazka raised his sword and examined the glistening edge, still dripping with Thurva’s blood.
Shranree stared at that deadly blade, as did Yllandris. Then the leader of the Heartstone circle straightened her robes and bowed to the chieftain. ‘I am yours.’
‘Excellent.’ Krazka leered at Yllandris with his lone eye. ‘And you?’
And me? I… wanted to be Queen. To marry Magnar and have children and prove to Shranree that I am no child. You’re a butcher. A monster. You’re worse than the Shaman.
Krazka’s leering eye began to narrow. His sword shifted a fraction.
She gulped. ‘I… I will serve you.’
‘Good,’ grunted the chieftain-who-would-be-emperor. ‘Start by rounding up a few foundlings. They’re no use to me, but they’ll serve.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Yllandris, though deep down she knew.
‘Been a while since the Herald last killed. It needs to feed.’
The Longest Night
Eremul slumped in his chair, so tired he almost toppled forwards and down over the parapet to his doom. The stench of smoke filled his nostrils. Ash drifted through the air, carried on the light breeze that had sprung up some time after midnight. Clouds of