The Complete Twilight Reign Collection

by Tom Lloyd

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The complete saga of THE TWILIGHT REIGN - a compelling fantasy told over five books and a collection of short stories In a land ruled by prophecy and the whims of Gods, a young man finds himself at the heart of a war he barely understands, wielding powers he may never be able to control. Isak is a white-eye, born bigger, more charismatic and more powerful than normal men ... but with that power comes an unpredictable temper and an inner rage. Feared and despised by those around him, he dreams of a place in the army and a change to live his own life, but the Gods have other plans for the intemperate teenager. Isak has been Chosen as heir-elect to the brooding Lord Bahl, the white-eye Lord of the Farlan. This is a time for revenge, and for the forging of empires. With mounting envy and malice, the men who would themselves be kings watch Isak as he is shaped and moulded to fulfil the prophecies that circle him like scavenger birds. The Gods are once again beginning to meddle in the affairs of men. Over five books we follow Isak's life and the fallout from the choices he has been forced to make - choices that may well lead to his death.

Release date: January 23, 2014

Publisher: Gollancz

Print pages: 2000

Sample

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As the Farlan retreated from the battle of the Byoran Fens, Lord Isak chose to face his proscribed fate and stay to cover their retreat. He died at the hands of the Menin lord,
who had been driven half-mad with grief after Isak killed his son, having goaded the Menin lord into sending him directly to Ghenna.

In the wake of Isak’s death, the Chief of the Gods, Death himself, incarnates on the battleground to gather those Aspects Isak had inadvertently torn from His control – the five
minor Gods known as the Reapers – only to discover one, the Wither Queen, remains beyond His control. After her bargain with Isak, the Wither Queen has become too strong to be recalled.
Fulfilling her bargain with Isak, she is far to the north, hunting Elves in the forests beyond Lomin, where she find the Elves are enslaving local spirits there to use as weapons. The Wither Queen
subsumes these spirits and uses their power to bolster her strength as she looks to remain a Goddess in her own right, separate from her former master, Death.

In Byora, Doranei mourns his best friend, Sebe, in the company of Zhia Vukotic. Sebe died at the start of the battle as he tried to assassinate Aracnan on a Byoran street. He managed only to
wound the Demi-God, but the poison he used is now slowly killing Aracnan.

In Llehden, Mihn, Xeliath and the witch of Llehden set Isak’s desperate last plan in motion: Mihn travels into the underworld to attempt to break Isak out of Ghenna. The Chief of the Gods
permits him to pass through onto the slopes of Ghain, the great mountain at the heart of which is the Dark Place, the home of daemons. Mihn ascends to the ivory gates of Ghenna, crosses the fiery
river Maram and enters the lowest domain of Ghenna, where Isak’s dreams have told him the soul of Aryn Bwr, captive in Isak’s mind, would end up. He is successful, but for them to
escape back to the lands of the living, Xeliath, Isak’s love, is forced to fight the Jailer of the Dark, an ancient dragon bound there by the Gods, and is killed in the battle.

Meanwhile in the Circle City, Zhia Vukotic and her brother Koezh take the sword Aenaris to a temporary hiding-place out in the spirit-haunted fens beyond Byora, since the Menin lord disturbed
its long-standing rest in the Library of Seasons and woke the maddened dragon they had set there as the sword’s guardian. The Menin lord himself, lost in his grief over his dead son, is
ignoring the ravages of the enraged dragon, which is laying waste to each quarter of the Circle City. The Duchess of Byora and her ward Ruhen – a young boy who is in fact the vessel Azaer has
taken as his mortal form – come to petition him, and only then is the badly injured Major Amber able to succeed in waking his lord from his all-consuming grief. The Menin lord agrees to free
his newest subjects from the dragon, and Ruhen uses the opportunity to forge a link between himself and the man grieving for his lost son.

Azaer’s disciple within the Harlequin clans realises it’s time to lead them south, to add legitimacy to Ruhen’s burgeoning power.

In Llehden, Mihn and the witch bury Xeliath and try to coax the traumatised Isak back to his senses. Isak has been left broken and horribly scarred by the tortures inflicted on him in Ghenna; in
the days after his escape he is a catatonic wreck.

Elsewhere, in Narkang territory, the Mortal-Aspect Legana has escaped the Circle City in search of King Emin, and she finds him at last as he is gathering an élite strike-team to send to
Byora and kill Ruhen. The king believes Ruhen to be a vehicle of Azaer’s control over the Duchess of Byora, rather than the mortal form of Azaer he actually is. She and the king come to an
agreement: he will provide sanctuary for her and her former sisters, the Daughters of Fate, and in return they will help his over-stretched élite assassinate Harlequins across the Land
before Ruhen can twist them all to his service.

In the Circle City, the Menin lord discusses the next step of his plan to ascend to Godhood with General Gaur. They start a programme of murdering priests of Karkarn, and send an Elven assassin
to kill Count Vesna, now the Mortal-Aspect of Karkarn, in order to weaken the God of War and ultimately allow the Menin lord to replace him. Once that is in play, the Menin lord very publically
kills the dragon plaguing the city as a way to demonstrate his strength to the powerbrokers there. Elsewhere in the Circle City, Luerce – the principal disciple of Ruhen’s rabble of
followers – meets with Knight-Cardinal Certinse, the leader of the Devoted, to offer them a solution to their crippling problem of a fanatical priesthood taking control of their martial
Order.

As the Farlan army retreats home and Count Vesna begins to appreciate the full implications of becoming Karkarn’s Mortal-Aspect, he discovers Isak had left orders to make Fernal, a
Demi-God and companion of the witch of Llehden, next Lord of the Farlan. Isak’s order includes a deal with High Cardinal Certinse, the newly established head of the cults in Tirah, but before
Fernal can profit from this collusion the fanatics within the cults have the High Cardinal murdered, forcing Fernal to do a deal with the nobility instead, to shore up his uncertain position and
avoid the tribe descending into civil war.

When Count Vesna does get back to Tirah at last, it is to a city almost under siege, as the religious factions are all struggling to control it. His first meeting on his return with Carel,
Isak’s surrogate father, is fraught, but Vesna begins to realise Isak might have had a plan in dying the way he did; that he might not have thrown his life away as they currently believe.

In Narkang, King Emin is visited by the God Larat, who warns him that the Menin will soon invade and he must not face them in battle, so powerful has the Menin lord now become.

Not far away, in the sanctuary of Llehden, Isak’s sanity is slowly returning, helped in part by the gift of a puppy, Hulf, and the witch removing those portions of his memory that are too
horrific to remain. However, with the loss of those memories go some remembrances of his life before his imprisonment in Ghenna, including his knowledge of Carel, and the damage this has caused to
Isak’s mind becomes increasingly clear. Meanwhile Mihn hears the legend of the Ragged Man from a local girl, who presumes Isak is that figure out of folklore.

King Emin’s strike-force reaches the Circle City and attacks the Ruby Tower of Byora. Though they fail to find Ruhen, Doranei does manage to kill the failing Demi-God Aracnan. He is then
given a journal by his lover, Zhia Vukotic; the prize Azaer’s followers were hunting in Scree, for which they sacrificed the Skull of Ruling to possess. The journal belonged to Zhia’s
mad brother, Vorizh Vukotic, who stole Termin Mystt, Death’s own sword, a weapon equalled in power only by Aenaris.

After the attack on the Ruby Tower, the Menin focus entirely on invading Narkang. Following Isak’s last decree, his troop of personal guards is sent to King Emin and a few travel on to
Llehden, where they discover their lord reborn. King Emin makes his final preparations for invasion with Legana, while desperately searching for a way to defeat a man born to be invincible in
battle. When the Menin do invade, they are savage in their assault. Frustrated by the Narkang armies’ refusal to meet them in battle, they decimate the eastern half of the nation, culminating
in the wholesale destruction of Aroth, one of the nation’s biggest cities.

Azaer’s followers, Venn and the spirit of the minstrel Rojak caught in Venn’s shadow, make a deal with the Wither Queen for her support. In return, they break the bargain she made
with Isak that constricts her. Luerce and a Witchfinder within the Devoted engineer the death of a high-ranking priest who had been containing the worst excesses of the fanatics within the Devoted.
As the Devoted suffer increased oppression from their own priests, they start to remember their Order’s original doctrine: they were created as an army for a coming saviour. All the while,
Walls of Intercession appear across Byora as the desperate and mad begin to see Ruhen as a saviour sent by the Gods in the place of a corrupt priesthood.

In Tirah, while Fernal agrees to break his mutual defence treaties with Narkang in return for the support of the Farlan nobility, Vesna and Tila’s wedding day finally comes – but
before the ceremony can be completed, the assassin sent by the Menin lord strikes. Vesna survives, but the rest of the wedding party is killed before the assassin dies. In the aftermath he
discovers there is a larger plot afoot as priests of Karkarn are also murdered. Now apart from the usual structure of Farlan society, not bound by the agreements made between Fernal and the
nobility, he is free to continue the war Isak sacrificed himself for. Grieving deeply, he leaves to aid Narkang.

Isak is now partially recovered, and when he discovers he has the means to defeat the Menin lord, he tells King Emin. He halts the Narkang retreat and together Isak and Emin stand their ground
at Moorview Castle. The battle sees terrible losses on both sides, almost shattering the allies, even as Vesna, accompanied by the Palace Guard of Tirah, arrives and forces the Menin lord into
desperate actions. The Narkang mage Cetarn sacrifices himself to bait the trap, and Emin’s white-eye bodyguard, Coran, dies leading the charge to close it.

Isak summons the Gods of the Upper Circle and compels them to curse the Menin lord and strip his name from history, just as they once did to Aryn Bwr. He is not killed, but entirely crippled.
Once divested of his Crystal Skulls, the Menin lord is transported to Llehden to take Isak’s place as the Ragged Man, leaving his army in disarray – some to fight to the death, others
to flee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He felt it as a distant cry; an eagle’s shriek swooping down from the heavens. In his bones he heard it, rumbling up from the dark places underground to shake the very
stones of the city. He stared up at the overcast sky, then all around at the courtyard. The veteran soldier found himself suddenly and unaccountably afraid. He reached behind his back and drew one
scimitar, but the reassurance of it in his hand was eclipsed by a mounting sense of foreboding.

There was a clatter from the street outside and he struck blindly as he turned, but there was no one behind him. Voices broke through the soft patter of rain on stone, sounding confused and
angry, but not like men ready to kill. Then the whispers started, running around the courtyard, and he turned a full circle, his scimitar ready, but saw nothing but empty ground and bare high
walls.

The voices in the street grew in number; he heard broken sentences that tailed off into nothing. He felt suddenly weak and though he still circled, his movements were more hesitant as his knees
threatened to collapse. The whispers were so close now, in his shadow. Cold fingers probed at the recesses of his mind. Instinctively he shook his head, trying to clear the sensation, but it had no
effect.

A moment later the claws came.

He gasped and dropped his sword, clutching his head in both hands as tiny teeth started to tear at his mind. Their chill touch dug deeper and he fell to one knee. For a moment he was paralysed
by shock and pain. He didn’t notice his own nails tearing into his skin, nor feel the blood running down his fingers. The greater pain was inside his skull: an icy fire that spread through
his mind leaving a scorched trail of memories.

Now he screamed. Oblivious to the impact of stone, he toppled over. He convulsed, writhing on the ground as the claws rooted in every forgotten corner, rending with swift, dispassionate
precision. Words from his past were ripped away. A memory of his proud parents flashed past his eyes, then their voices were empty sounds. He felt a name torn out and scattered to the winds.
Eventually the pain receded, to be replaced then by a numbing cold; one that made him gasp for breath and shake uncontrollably. He lay on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped
around his head. Stars burst across his vision before the cold took him. Darkness wrapped itself around him and he sank willingly into its embrace.

He felt himself shaken awake and rolled onto his back. A hushed voice was speaking urgently above him. It sounded familiar. When he opened his eyes a whip-crack of pain flashed
through his head.

The voice spoke again, a word he thought he recognised, but his mind was a mire. He tried to speak, but it came out only as a feeble moan.

‘Amber,’ the voice hissed, ‘Amber, you must wake up!’

He felt himself pulled into a seating position, but as soon as the pressure lessened he flopped back to the ground. The Land swam and blurred around him as he was hauled up again.

The voice didn’t give up. ‘Listen to me, Amber: you must listen.’

He was held steady, and now dim shapes slowly started forming before his eyes: a blank courtyard wall and a weathered face with light hair and a smear of mud on one cheek – a man he
thought he’d once known.

The man crouched before him, maintaining a firm grip on his arms and staring hard into his eyes. ‘Amber, I need you on your feet.’

He didn’t move. He could not fathom the words washing over him, nor command his limbs to move.

In frustration the man shook him like a doll and clouted his boot to try and attract his attention. ‘On your feet, Amber – if you don’t get up now, you’re
dead.’

He looked down at the boot the man had struck, then at the man’s own bare feet: they were mismatched. One was normal, the other a squat lump with fat little toes. The sight sparked
something in his mind, causing him to flinch even as he said a name: ‘Nai.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ the man said encouragingly. He cast a nervous glance to one side before returning his attention to the stricken man. ‘Now you, your name is Amber
– remember? Say it, say “Amber”.’

His first attempt came out as garbled nonsense as panic filled his mind. Name? My name . . .

His head snapped back as Nai slapped him hard across the face. ‘Say it, Amber. Say it.’

‘Ahh— Amber,’ he gasped as tears spilled from his eyes and without knowing why he started to keen softly until Nai struck him again, then grabbed his head to keep his attention
focused.

‘There’s no time for that. Don’t think, just do as I say, soldier! Your name is Amber, do you understand me? Your name is Amber and you need to get on your feet.’ Without
waiting for a response Nai arranged Amber’s feet so they were flat on the ground, then stood on them and hauled on the big soldier’s arms.

Amber felt himself lurch forward, but he was unable to do anything to help, instead concentrating on the one word he understood, the name he clung to with the desperation of a drowning man. He
nearly toppled onto Nai, but the smaller man caught him in time and held him balanced.

‘A little help would be useful right about now,’ Nai muttered as he manoeuvred himself around and underneath Amber’s right arm. Before he tried to stand he grabbed
Amber’s lost scimitar and slid it back into the scabbard on his back, then gave him a pat on the shoulder.

‘Now, push upwards,’ he said. ‘I can’t carry you all the way.’

Nai forced himself upright, and Amber felt his legs respond to the movement and straighten. For a moment he was standing tall before he slumped back down onto Nai.

‘Good,’ Nai puffed, ‘but we’d better try that again. I can’t carry you out of the city.’

‘I— I’ve lost—’

‘You’ve lost a name, yes, I know,’ Nai said in a softer tone. ‘It was stolen from you – it was stolen from us all, but you felt it worse than anyone.’

‘Wh . . . ?’ Amber tailed off, defeated by the effort of thinking as a swirl of unformed questions clouded his mind.

‘Now’s really not the time for that conversation. Come on, try to take a step forward.’ He leaned forward, trying to make Amber move his feet and take his own weight. The right
drifted a little and caught on the ground until Nai knocked it with his instep and got his boot flat on the ground again. This time Amber moved forward on instinct and the weight across Nai’s
shoulder’s lessened a touch.

‘That’s good, now one more,’ he said encouragingly, and the pair began to make painfully slow progress across the courtyard.

Once they reached the gate Nai stopped and looked up at Amber. ‘You’re not strong enough yet, but I need you moving quicker than that or we’re both
dead.’ He edged Amber to the wall and leaned him against it to take some of the weight off his shoulders, but a moment later a second voice broke the quiet.

‘Hey, who’re you?’

Nai turned to see a man with long blond hair standing inside the half-open gate to the courtyard: a Byoran labourer, by the way he was dressed, holding a cudgel in his hands. The man peered
forward, his eyes slowly widening as he looked at Amber.

‘That’s a damned . . .‘ The man didn’t bother finishing his sentence but raised his weapon and headed towards them.

Nai saw a flicker of surprise in the man’s face as he advanced with his own empty hands outstretched.

The Byoran got ready to smash Nai in the face with his cudgel, but before he had fully raised his weapon, a flash of light erupted from Nai’s palms into the man’s face. The smell of
scorched flesh filled the air and the man reeled, dropping the cudgel and clapping his hands to his cheeks.

Nai kept moving, drawing a dagger from his belt and punching the tip into the man’s stomach, then tilting it upwards and driving it towards his heart. Then he withdrew it and ran the blade
across his throat, just to make sure. The Byoran fell without a further sound and lay spasming on the ground.

Nai bent and wiped the blade clean on the man’s shirt before he sheathed the weapon and eased the courtyard door shut again. Amber hadn’t moved throughout the brief struggle, and
when Nai returned to him he didn’t seem to have even noticed it. He stood a little taller now, holding one hand on the wall to steady himself, but Nai could see he was still in no condition
to walk down the street yet, let alone run.

‘Another turn about the grounds then?’ He asked as he slipped under Amber’s arm and turned the soldier around. He spared a look at the corpse on the ground, a small trail of
blood making its way towards the courtyard wall. ‘Let’s just hope you prove useful enough to make this worthwhile.’

Struck by a thought, Nai stopped and passed a hand across Amber’s face, muttering arcane words under his breath as he did so. After half a minute he stopped. ‘At least the
link’s still there,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not sure who will be glad to see a Menin soldier after today, but King Emin might be able to use you to track down his turncoat,
Ilumene. It isn’t much of a choice, but it’s the best one you’re likely to get, and a man in my profession could always use a king owing him a favour.’

Amber still didn’t respond and Nai’s expression turned pitying. ‘Gods, your parents wouldn’t have expected this when they named you for your lordly, albeit distant,
relation – who could have? That was one of the odder sensations in my life, I think, having a name plucked from my mind – and it didn’t even involve necromancy! This life’s
full of surprises, but let’s just be glad no one’s used your real name since you joined the army, otherwise I think you’d be on the ground, and undoubtedly crippled.’

He paused a moment, wincing, and had to blink away a sudden unpleasant sense of disjointed loss. ‘How curious: it’s uncomfortable to even try and remember – very uncomfortable.
Well, no matter; he must be dead by now, and I can think of him as the Menin lord easily enough.’

He patted Amber on the shoulder again and directed him back across the courtyard. ‘And you, my friend; you’re still Major Amber, so not much has changed there really – except
you’re a major in an army currently being obliterated, and you’re as fragile as a baby. Just as well I can think of a use for you, and a certain king who might pay rather well for that
use.’

They started walking, short, shuffling steps away from the courtyard gate. ‘Don’t worry,’ Nai added with forced brightness, ‘you can thank me for saving your life later.
Once I’ve sold you to the enemy.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doranei awoke with a whimper from dreams of sapphire eyes. Lost in dark corridors, exhausted and afraid, he’d followed the faint scent of her perfume for an age and more
– walking deep in the bowels of some unknown castle, through bloodless corpses and shit while dead Menin soldiers reached at him from the shadows.

Somehow he’d kept himself upright, prising cold grasping fingers from his flesh and beating them away. They’d decayed before his eyes but more rose in their place until his limbs
screamed with pain and he could scarcely breathe. When Doranei woke the ache of exertion intensified and he lay there for a long while, barely able to move, every shallow breath feeling like a
knife slashing down his ribcage.

‘Don’t complain! At least you’re alive.’

With a groan he rolled himself onto one side to face the speaker. Veil sat slumped in an armchair, a handful of other members of the Brotherhood asleep on the ground nearby.

‘Did you hear me complain?’ Doranei said, wincing as he spoke. He’d survived the battle virtually unscathed, just four or five minor nicks and a whole ton of bruises.

‘You were about to.’ There was no humour in Veil’s voice, no space for anything more than weariness. He wore a fresh shirt and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but
neither hid the bandage encasing the stump where his hand had once been.

Thank the Gods it was his left, Doranei thought again, his eyes lingering on the injured limb until Veil tugged the blanket over it. Veil had tied his dark hair neatly back, but like the
rest of them he’d had no chance yet to wash out the blood and mud.

‘How is it?’

‘Hurts like a bastard.’ Veil tried to smile, or maybe he grimaced, Doranei couldn’t tell which. ‘Hopefully not for much longer. Tremal said he smelled opium in the night
– went to steal it for me.’

Doranei nodded absently. He struggled to rise, using the wall to steady himself, and stood staring down at his feet until he decided he could trust them. Diffuse sunlight shining through a
window on the right told him he’d clearly slept long past dawn, however little actual rest he’d managed. His stinking, sweat- and blood-stiffened tunic was still lying on the floor,
where he’d dropped it with his armour. He picked it up and inspected the stains. ‘Heard one o’ the king’s clerks say it’d be quicker to count the living than the
dead.’ He looked up. ‘A sour kind of victory, this. I ain’t one for praying much, but I’ll kiss the feet o’ any God can see to it I never witness that
again.’

‘Aye, nor lose so many Brothers again,’ Veil added. ‘Ain’t many of us left to make good on the bet.’

‘Bet? Who won?’ Doranei shook his head as sadness filled his heart. The Brotherhood would bet on almost anything – it was one way to cope with the strange, dangerous life they
led; one way to remember those they lost along the way. After yesterday’s slaughter, even a veteran of the Brotherhood found it hard to believe anyone cared to collect on the wager.

‘That fucking loud-mouth white-eye,’ Veil said.

‘Isak? He didn’t kill—’ Doranei scowled as the ache behind his eyes increased. ‘He didn’t kill the Menin lord, whatever we’re telling the
Land.’

‘Not Isak, the Mad Axe – that bastard was dragged out o’ the north ditch just before sundown, half-dead and brains scrambled but still claiming his win. Turns out he killed the
general attacking that flank, Vrill, Duke Anote Vrill.’

Doranei sighed and slipped his complaining arms through the sleeves of his tunic. He left the armour on the floor but buckled on his weapons-belt, now holding only the ancient sword he’d
taken from Aracnan’s corpse. Then he stood still for a moment, letting Veil’s words filter into his exhausted mind. ‘Wonderful,’ he said finally, stirring himself to hunt
through his pack for the cigars he thought he’d left there. ‘So now I get to live the rest o’ my life with some fucking white-eye’s name tattooed on my arse.’ He lit
one from the coals and headed outside.

He squinted at the weak sun as he gingerly wove a path through the makeshift camp in the grounds of Moorview Castle. He stopped outside the walls on the slope that led down to the moor, brought
up short by the chaos of the previous day.

There were three great pits, one still being dug. The first was already filled with bodies and wood from the forest and a column of dirty smoke was rising high in the windless sky. Images from
the battle flashed before his eyes: friends falling as the Menin threw themselves forward with frenzied abandon. The Brotherhood had lost half their number, a shocking proportion that was matched
or exceeded by at least a dozen legions.

‘Brother Doranei.’ Suzerain Derenin sat on the sloping grass to Doranei’s left, his back against the wall of his castle. His right arm was in a sling and he winced as he
gestured to the ground beside him with the spherical bottle he held in his left. ‘Join me.’

‘Got any food?’ Doranei asked as he eased himself down beside the Lord of Moorview. Whatever was in the bottle smelled more potent than wine

Suzerain Derenin shook his head. ‘Couldn’t stomach it.’ He was muscular, both bigger and younger than Doranei, his long limbs and broad shoulders well-suited to battle, but
he’d still been so exhausted he’d almost crawled out of the fort once the last Menin had fallen.

‘Your first real battle, right? You sure can pick ’em.’

Doranei received only a grunt in reply, and when he took the bottle from Derenin he saw tears glisten in the man’s eyes. ‘Don’t matter who tells you what to expect, nothing
prepares a man for what he sees on a battlefield, and that . . .’ He tailed off. None of the Narkang men had seen anything like it, experienced or not. Scree had been a place of horror and
slaughter, sure enough, but it was the Farlan and Devoted troops who’d seen the worst of it. And they’d got off lightly, he now realised.

There were tens of thousands of men lying dead out there on the moor. Someone had guessed at fifty thousand, but others thought the figure higher. And a great many of those who survived the
battle would have died in the night of their wounds. Bodies were lying everywhere, despite the efforts of the gangs working to drag the dead into those great pits. The earth was stained rusty-red,
and the stink of death was rising with the clouds of flies.

‘Can’t get the taste out the back of my mouth,’ Suzerain Derenin muttered. ‘No matter what I try to wash it away with.’

‘Try this.’ Doranei proffered his cigar. ‘Covers up most stinks that can be covered.’

He watched Derenin puff away at it, grimacing at the unfamiliar taste but drawing all the harder on it for that. ‘You fought well,’ Doranei said. ‘There’s not much to
feel proud about when you’re treading on the faces of the dead and sticky with their blood, but you were a hero yesterday. Never forget that.’

‘I won’t,’ he murmured. ‘It’s right there with the screams of men I’ve known my whole life – men who were only in that hell-pit because of
me.’

‘I’ve got no answers for you,’ Doranei replied wearily. ‘There’s no justice in war, no consolation. My best friend died before the battle of the Byoran Fens –
you know why? Because we tossed a coin and he got unlucky. Much as I hate myself for it, that’s all there is, and no amount of blame’ll change that.’

‘And life goes on,’ the nobleman said bitterly, wincing as he shifted slightly. ‘I’ve heard men say that half-a-dozen times already this morning.’

‘It’s the only truth we know. You got the luck o’ the draw, others didn’t. I ain’t claiming to have worked this out myself, but all you can do is mourn and keep on
living.’ Doranei paused and looked at the battlefield. When he spoke again it was with a firm nod of the head, as though he was still having to remind himself that what he said was true.
‘If I meet Sebe on the slopes of Ghain and he asks me how I lived the life won on that toss of a coin, I better have a good answer for him. Hard as it might be, we got to try.’

He hauled himself up again and started on down the stepped gardens into the small forest of tents pitched on the moor’s edge. To the right was a second, smaller camp where the
worst-injured of the prisoners were; anyone able to walk was out on the moor dragging bodies into the pits. The prisoners were a mixed lot, mainly Menin as most of their allies had fled when they
felt the Menin lord’s name ripped from their minds. Some, unable to escape, had surrendered; only the Menin élite had fought to the death, but it did mean there was no chance of