– and the Land rushed back with noise and fire and pain and light assaulting every sense. His instincts retook control and drove him for¬ward. Not even stopping to catch his breath, Styrax ran to the temple altar as purple bands of magic lashed down, carving great rents in the paved floor where he'd crouched just a few moments earlier.

Bracing his good foot against the altar, he pushed off into the air, feeling the muscles in his back strain as he readied another blow. Kobra was covered in ichor now, and it left a trail of deep crimson light through the air as it smashed into the daemon's own cruelly curved weapon, which exploded into a thousand tiny shards. Styrax let the force of the blow spin him back around, giving him a moment to recover his wits.

A fountain of magic erupted from the broken stub of the cleaver, green trails whipping around like enraged snakes. The daemon hissed and threw it away. It skittered across the floor for ten yards before coming to an abrupt halt. Out of the corner of his eye Styrax saw the lashing snakes slam down into the ground and begin to worm their way under the stone paving slabs, driving them up.

The daemon now held its flail with both hands, keeping the mace-heads moving, swinging them up threateningly whenever Styrax took a step closer. So fear has taught you something then, he thought with a grim smile. Try to keep me at hay while you work out what to do.

He feinted forward and was rewarded by the flail being whipped across where his knees would have been. As soon as the heads had passed Styrax leaped forward for real, following the swinging chains back to the source and chopping down to sever the daemon's right wrist. Burning green ichor spurted out over the temple floor and it reeled back, trying desperately to ward him off.

The white-eye ignored the flail as it clattered weakly off his armour and lashed out at the daemon's already damaged knee-joint. The force of the blow sent a judder along the blade that numbed Styrax's hands, but his ferocious resolve drove him on and he turned to smash an elbow into the daemon's gut. The handle of the flail crashed against the side of his head, sending black stars bursting across his eyes, but the daemon was weak now, and the battering, though painful, was too weak to stop him.

He rained down blows until at last he had the daemon-prince on the end of his fanged sword. Kobra pierced its chest and pinned it against a great marble column.

Styrax staggered for a moment. The air was alive with colours and magic rampaging uncontrolled; the air shuddered under the assault and he could hear the screams and hollers of the inhabitants of the Dark Place all around him. On the edge of his sight he saw flames against a looming darkness, the border between realms weakening further. His eyes were blurred and fiery pain flared in his gut, but he had enough strength left for the killing blow. With a roar he yanked Kobra free then hewed savagely at the daemon's neck and deep into the pillar behind. The impact almost lifted him off his feet as the black sword cleaved through stone; for a terrible heartbeat the dark¬ness descended and the heat of Ghenna's sulphurous fires washed over his skin, then he tore the blade clear and staggered out beyond the temple's boundary line into the cool morning light.

He staggered forward, a groan escaping his lips as he fought to find the ground under each step. It took a few moments for the Land to steady underneath him and the fire behind his eyes to fade enough for him to see again. He sank to his knees and tore his helm off, gasping at the touch of the morning air on his skin.

Somewhere behind the blur he heard someone – Kohrad? – shout, 'Father!' Then someone tried to slip his fingers around Kobra's hilt… with an effort he made out Kohrad's face and forced open his fist so his son could take the sword from his hand.

Drawing Kohrad close, Styrax put his lips to his ear and whispered fiercely, 'Find it.'

As he spoke, a symphony of shattering stone filled the air and a tremble ran through the ground like a massive earthquake. The pillar Styrax had hacked into was buckling as the magic was drawn into Ghenna with the daemon-prince's broken spirit. A thunderous crash split the air as the pillar collapsed onto the ruined temple floor, fol¬lowed by the relentless sound of thousands of tons of stone imploding as the Temple of the Sun became a daemon's cairn.

Eventually the devastation slowed to a halt and the echoes of the temple's death faded away, leaving nothing more than a memory ringing in their ears. After that, there was only a ragged sound that Styrax could not place for a while until he realised it was his own laboured breath. Around him, everything was perfectly still, the hush of a temple at prayer.

He blinked as the Land crept back into focus. It was covered by a haze; for a moment Styrax wondered what had happened to his eyes until he realised it was a cloud of dust. He let Kohrad help him to his unsteady feet and bear his weight for a moment longer, then a voice in the back of his mind reminded him that the young warrior still had a task to perform.

He straightened and gave Kohrad a light shove towards the ruin of the temple, then made his way waveringly to the group of Chetse commanders who were standing some twenty yards off. They looked aghast, too stunned to even move. One had sunk to his knees in prayer; the others just gaped at the collapse of Tsatach's greatest temple in the Land – and the eternal flame, the burning heart of the Chetse tribe.

He had just snuffed it out.

The dust swirled out to cover the Temple Plain, fading into nothing in the clear air above them. Somewhere behind him a lose piece of stone thumped heavily onto the packed earth of the temple floor.

'Gentlemen,' Styrax said hoarsely to the assembled Chetse, stagger¬ing sideways for a moment before he reasserted control over his body, 'gentlemen, you are dismissed.'

They stared at him, shocked and uncomprehending. He took another step and his lip twisted into a snarl as the ever-present blood-lust screamed to take charge once more. He heard one start a horrified prayer, but it was only fleeting as they turned and fled like a herd of spooked deer.

Kastan Styrax, Lord of the Menin, grinned drunkenly. He felt a trickle of blood fall from his lip; maybe he'd bitten it. He swung around and saw that Duke Vrill had also backed off to a safe distance. That amused him; this was Vrill's best chance to kill him and become Lord of the Menin himself… but no, Vrill had more sense than that. Kohrad carried Styrax's own sword after all, and he was not as weak as he looked.

Styrax looked out at where the low morning sun shone from just above the western cliffs. In his chest he could feel his heart hammer¬ing away, reminding him with every thump that he was still alive. At each beat he wanted to call out, to shout with laughter. He wiped the blood from his mouth, never once taking his eyes from the horizon beyond which the Gods lived in splendid isolation away from their mortal subjects. The legend was that they had retired there to recover after the Great War and the horrors they had inflicted upon the de¬feated, and there they would stay, apart from the affairs of mortals, content to sit and play with strands of destiny, as long as they never again had to see any of their own dying at the hands of mortals.

Were you watching, you bastards? Do you fear me yetl