any impact in his arm. The light armour they wore had no effect on Eolis – he could have been hewing a path through a field of nettles rather than living creatures. The sensation stirred something inside him. These elves were nothing more than long grass rustling against his calves. As his armour turned aside spears and arrows and his sword cut limbs into bloody chunks, the gnawing beast of magic in his belly screamed to be released.
A spear thrust under his horse's armour, drove deep into its lung. The animal reared up, screaming in pain, and Isak tumbled off. As he rose to his feet, unhurt, three elves lunged for him at once. He dodged the first blow, then beheaded the second enemy and turned the third elf's spear with his shield. None of them got the chance for a second strike. The elves were the size of children next to Isak; their shoulders were hunched by the curse of the Gods and their features twisted.
Isak hardly needed his sword. His huge arms were saturated with lethal strength and raw magic. He forgot the steps and strokes Carel had drummed into him since he was a child; the press of bodies meant all he could do was to strike out at everything within reach. Nearby he heard Suzerain Fordan's throaty laughter. He had lost his helm somewhere, and his horse: the barrel-chested man was on foot, swinging a huge war-hammer so powerfully that it was taking elven heads clean off.
As Isak watched, the man's broad smile faltered as a spear spitted him, piercing the join between his breastplate and backplate. The suzerain staggered and tried to lift his hammer again, but the elf twisted his spear in the wound and a paroxysm of agony flashed over Fordan's face. He fell to his knees and another elf stepped up and stabbed down with a short but lethal stroke. Before Isak could move, Duke Certinse's burning sword flashed into view, cutting through both elves, before he was off and moving deeper into their ranks. Behind him followed three of his hurscals; there were mounted knights behind them.
Isak turned and launched himself at the enemy again. The choking odour of death, sweat and excrement made his human self recoil, but there was something else to replace it. He tasted magic on the air and embraced its fury. Encased in the liquid grace of Siulents, Isak flowed over the bodies and started dealing death with an artistry that belied his brutish desire.
He hardly noticed when the enemy began to flee. The slow-moving elves died, whether they faced him or ran. Eolis sliced through swords and shields to reach the flesh. Fire and fury burst hot and savage from Isak's fingertips as a torrent of magic lashed and swirled around him. Spectral shapes hovered at the edges of his sight as he killed again and again. The ground itself opened up to receive the dead, deep furrows in the earth groaning open like yawning funeral barrows.
Finally a burst of pain in his skull stopped Isak dead. A cold weight appeared at the back of his head, as though he'd been clubbed, and his body was shocked into numbness. As he dropped to his knees the beast inside him faded, sated by the destruction it had wrought. Isak gasped for breath he could no longer find. Dropping Eolis and throwing aside his shield, he scrabbled desperately at his helm. For a moment he couldn't move it, through weakness or some sort of resistance, and then off it came.
Tearing off his hood, Isak sucked in great heaving gulps of air. He had been so immersed in the sea of battle that he had almost drowned in its dark depths. Now pain lanced through his body and his lungs cried out for more air while his mind howled at the slaughter around him – and the pleasure it had spawned in him. He bent over and retched, tears of pain and anguish dripping to mingle with the blood that ran from his body. With the taste of puke still in his mouth, he pitched forward and collapsed on to the ground, not even feeling himself hit as a numbing darkness washed over him.