He gagged at the sudden stench of decay that filled the air and fell to his knees, retching. The largest of the creatures roared again, louder than the minotaurs, but with a more human voice. The beast was a dirty grey colour, with ragged scraps of cloth, or maybe feathers, hanging from its body. Its huge arms were almost as large as the rest of its body, and they were covered with shards of chitinous armour. It gripped one of the open gates and twisted it, snapping the thick, metal-reinforced beams like kindling. It bellowed as it tossed the pieces at Teral and knocked the major onto his back, then redoubled its assault on the gates.

The smoke grew thicker. He could hear the sounds of fighting behind him as the two beasts used sword-like forearms to tear through the gatehouse troops. The first of the monsters – daemons, he realised at last – had not followed them but stood just inside the gate, exuding a growing cloud of choking foulness that was borne into the Fist's interior by the wind. Teral could see its eyes as it watched with what he thought looked like terrible anticipation the death going on behind it.

Now a fifth figure came into view. It was quite unlike the rest, and Teral scrabbled backwards in fear, ignoring the foul smoke that was filling his lungs and mouth. He was quite unable to face down the renewed fear he felt at the sight of the white-hot, raging figure of flame.

The Burning Man, he thought through the whimpering fear, before realising it was not a man alight, but a figure of fire, comprised entirely of dancing flames: a daemon like the others. Daemons, daemons all.

He tried to run, but now smoke had filled the Fist. Screams came from every direction, as did the ear-splitting roars of the largest daemon. All he could see were the burning red eyes and that terrible, shifting figure of fire. His eyes burned, his stomach heaved, his limbs were shaking uncontrollably as the infection of the smoke ran through his veins-

From nowhere a hand grabbed him and started dragging him away somewhere. He flailed at it, shrieking in fear, but in the next moment he felt himself being thrown. The sky lightened, the smoke receded and suddenly there was cold dirt underneath him and cool air on his face. Teral rolled once, twice, before hitting something and coming to a stop. More hands grabbed him and pulled him upright, holding him as his legs wobbled under his weight.

'Getting the idea?' shouted someone in his ear and he felt himself shaken like a rat in a terrier's mouth. His hazy vision began to clear as a bright yellow light in front of him drove the smoke from his eyes. He blinked hard and saw the main entrance of the Fist, the splintered, ruined gates on fire and the fire'daemon reaching out to engulf the entire fortress.

At the side stood the largest of the daemons, propped on its gigantic arms and watching them, its jaw hanging slack. A dagger hilt protruded from the centre of its chest. He couldn't remember seeing anyone getting a blow in – then he recognised the knife.

Gods, it was the priests! The grey rags hanging from the daemon's body looked as if they were growing out of its flesh. Their daggers turned their own novices into daemons!

The revelation drove the last of Major Teral's strength from his body and he sagged, not caring when the grip on his arms became too painful to bear. He was hauled up once more and Duke Vrill's face came into focus. The white-eye was peering down at him, savage delight on his face.

'Ready to surrender yet?' Vrill pointed at the gate. 'Or do you want the smoke and fire to take them all?'

Teral felt himself nodding as best he could, even as the tears streamed down his face. He was shoved forward and one of the men who had been holding him drove him on towards the burning, smoke-filled gateway.

'Go then,' Vrill roared after them as the flames parted, 'go and tell that to the rest of your soldiers!'

CHAPTER 31

'The great and good, squabbling like spoilt children,' Ilumene said with contempt as he glared back at the Scholars' Palace. At the duchess's request he had taken Ruhen for a walk, leaving her at the table, arguing with Styrax.

He turned his head to look up at the child now perched on his shoulders. 'If they keep on like that, Lord Styrax will strike them down like the God of Vain Men.'

His comment provoked no immediate response. Ilumene could feel the child watching the ongoing negotiations with his usual silent intensity. Evening had fallen with the stealth of a panther, suddenly sweeping down on the valley. When lanterns had been called for, the duchess had demanded a blanket for Ruhen as well.

Somewhat to Ilumene's chagrin, none of the Litse attendants had followed him when he left the terrace. Only the powerful and the scholars merited watching; apparently Ilumene wasn't considered either.

'Tell me,' Ruhen said. His voice was soft and elusive to the ear, like the susurration of autumn leaves in the breeze.

'The story? Didn't you write it?' He chuckled and took the dirt path that followed the valley's perimeter. 'In that case, there's a certain know-it-all king out west who owes me ten gold Emins!' He headed towards the tunnel entrance that would take them back to Byora once they had all capitulated. The Devoted, especially the Knight-Cardinal, had been thrown by the news, but had yet to actually surrender. What they were arguing about now was anyone's guess, but Ilumene didn't care. The first time he'd met Knight-Cardinal Certinse he'd been one of King Emin's faceless bodyguards; the intervening years had not diminished the Devoted leader's ability to waffle on endlessly whilst smiling all the while – but Ilumene was grateful that his natural Farlan arrogance meant the man hadn't bothered to remember the faces of the Narkang bodyguards.

He cleared his throat theatrically. 'Right then, the story of the God of Vain Men – you'll like this one. It's heretical, for a few reasons, which is why I'd thought it one of yours. There once was a rich man in the kingdom of Pelesei who found an old shrine on his land-'

'It's a lie,' Ruhen interrupted.

'A lie? What's a lie?'

'Tell me about Pelesei.'

'Pelesei?' Ilumene was struggling to keep up. 'Pelesei was the Kingdom of the Crescent Peninsula, far to the south. It was destroyed by plague two millennia ago; now it's just a motley collection of fifty-odd small city-states.'

'Why's it remembered?' Ruhen asked.

He snorted. 'Because of the stories based there, more than anything else.' He paused. 'Are you saying that every story about Pelesei was made up? But Rojak must have told me a dozen or more-'

'My herald knew.'

'Knew what?' Ilumene asked. 'Piss and daemons, what! That Pelesei never existed? Don't tell me that; it can't be true.'

'It did exist, a long way south.'

Ilumene didn't speak for a moment as he thought the matter through. 'But the stories are fiction, so the only thing it was notable for was – existing a long way away? So no one much travelled there… it's a much more exciting setting for a story if it doesn't trade much, because it means anything might go on and no one's likely to correct you. No wonder Rojak used it as a setting. The minstrel loved his lies, but those that changed history were always his favourite!'

He laughed loudly, his voice echoing back from the wall of the valley. Here it was nearly vertical, but twenty yards ahead the slope became a little shallower; it would be possible to climb bits of the cliff there – not that there was anywhere to go or any sort of path to the top… As they approached, Ilumene saw futility hadn't stopped someone: a glow of light illuminated a figure slumped on a rock ledge with Its bare feet hanging over the edge.

'Looks like he's dead or drunk,' Ilumene commented, getting as near as he could without actually climbing himself. He peered forward. 'It's that mage who popped up yesterday,' he said to Ruhen. 'Our friend in Scree's dogsbody.'