Prologue

The tendons on Themesius’s neck stood out like stakes as he strained in a silent scream. He was bearing the brunt of the attack. Figgis, so fiercely unyielding all of these long years, had finally weakened. The cracks in his mental armour were widening rapidly.

Pitching their wit and their magics together, the original ten-strong Paladin had held for centuries. Gradually, though, time and their prisoner’s inexhaustible power had worn down their unified strength. He worked on them constantly, sometimes as a group, mostly on individuals.

Kyt Cyrus had fallen initially and would for ever be known as the First. The Second was Cloot of Rork’yel and the Third, Solyana, magical beast, succumbed soon after. There was a long wait for the Fourth but fall she did: Juno the Esian. Adongo of the Moruks was Fifth, followed by Saxon the Kloek, Sixth. The minstrel, Sallementro, was Seventh, and later Arabella the Priestess was Eighth of the Paladin to capitulate.

Only Figgis the Rock Dweller and Themesius of the Giants still held, although Figgis knew his time had almost come. Somehow these two pushed back against the god’s relentless whisperings, the wave after wave of astounding power which crowded their minds and battered at their resolve.

Themesius roared as he fought the monster.

Orlac laughed. ‘Such spirit, Themesius. I must work harder on you.’ He turned to Figgis. ‘You had better rest now, my short friend, for soon we shall lock our minds again and then, I fear, I may see your end.’

Nanak, Keeper of the Paladin, watched in bitter silence as his brave warriors rested, their tortured expressions slowly relaxing. He could see the toll this ancient battle was taking. It would not be long now: Figgis would fall, but bravely. Nanak’s only comfort was an ever-increasing belief in Merkhud’s assurance that these courageous friends would re-emerge to fight again. Merkhud had told him that their spirits fled to the Heartwood where they were restored amongst the living to prepare to fight the next battle. Themesius, bedrock of the Paladin, would succumb last and bear the final humiliation of Orlac’s victory; of this Nanak was certain. If only the Giant could maintain his strength long enough to give them the time they desperately needed.

Hold, my brave Paladin, he gently passed through their minds. The Trinity will come. You are its torchbearers. Buy us the time we need.

But both were too lost in their despair to respond. Nanak understood. He too yearned for the moment of release, when the Custodian would relieve him of this formidable task.

The silence was shattered by Orlac’s manic giggle. The god was staring at him now. Those strange, piercing violet eyes penetrated his own ancient and bewitched soul. Nanak shivered and closed his eyes, shutting out the vision of Orlac whilst he awaited the next attack. He must trust Lys. She would guide them through this and bring about Orlac’s destruction.

There were brief moments when Nanak felt a flash of sorrow for Orlac. Prince of the gods, revered son of the Host, stolen from his birthright and forced to live a mortal life. A tragic character. Nevertheless, Nanak hated him. He lived for the time when retribution would be visited on Orlac on behalf of the suffering souls of the Paladin.

Lys had promised salvation. She was the Custodian. He would obey her.

He sensed Themesius and Figgis stiffen and the barriers were thrown up in their minds again in a blink. Orlac was on his feet, dancing madly, rejuvenated. The fight to the death had begun again and Orlac was enjoying himself.

He was not alone.

Watching silently was the god Dorgryl. Excommunicated from the Host and thrown into the Bleak to ponder his sin for eternity, he had watched this battle for centuries, invisible to all, and had celebrated every one of Orlac’s victories.

If he had arms, he would have hugged himself on this day. He could sense Orlac’s coming release. A release which the mighty god Dorgryl would turn into his own personal triumph.